


Inverse Omens - Other Moments

by Fyre



Series: Inverse Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-14 04:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 89
Words: 128,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Inverse Omensis a Good Omens Reverse-Role Entire Canon Re-write with Demon Aziraphale and Angel Crowley.This is a collection of scenes across history that didn't fit into the show timeline and therefore didn't appear in the fic.





	1. Pre-4004BC - After the First War

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, this was inevitable from the moment I picked up these monsters. I don't think I'm ever going to escape. I love them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battles had been long and bloody. Bodies of the fallen scattered the Plains of Heaven, staining the soil with ichor. Those who lived and fought on the side of the Morningstar were being gathered up and driven to the boundaries.  
Uriel cleaned their blade, slipping it back into the sheath on their hip, mounting the steps that led to the throne.  
It had been empty for longer than the angel could bear to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Uriel is a pushy git.

The battles had been long and bloody. Bodies of the fallen scattered the Plains of Heaven, staining the soil with ichor. Those who lived and fought on the side of the Morningstar were being gathered up and driven to the boundaries.

Uriel cleaned their blade, slipping it back into the sheath on their hip, mounting the steps that led to the throne.

It had been empty for longer than the angel could bear to think about.

She was… elsewhere. The rebellion had displeased her, the senior Archangels said. She still watched, but she would not stand among them, not now, not stained and sullied as they all were, bearing the taint of those who had _dared_ to rebel.

A small figure still sat by the throne.

Uriel’s lips thinned to a line.

The scribe.

When the summons had called all angels to battle, he had remained by the throne, pen in hand. He hadn’t fought against the demons, but neither had he fought for Heaven. Unlike every other angel on the field, his wings were clean and unblooded, the black feathers glittering like a starling’s wing.

Uriel stalked closer. “You.”

Raziel glanced up from the scroll he was writing on. “Uriel.” He bowed his head respectfully, then eyed them. “The battle is finished?”

“No thanks to you,” they snapped. “Up. You’re required.”

Raziel laid down his scroll, frowning. “Me?”

“You’re the record-keeper, aren’t you?” They jerked their head and turned, stalking back through the empty echoing throne room. The other angel scrambled to his feet, hurrying after them.

“What needs to be recorded?” he asked. “Has She spoken?”

Uriel’s jaw twitched, tight. “They have been… condemned.”

“Condemned?” There was hesitation in his voice as he said it.

“The rebels.” Uriel glanced back at him. “They will Fall, damned from her Grace for eternity.”

Raziel stopped dead, horror all over his face. “But isn’t that…”

Uriel’s lips curled back from their teeth. “Isn’t that _what_?” they snarled, soaked in the blood of friend and foe alike. _Answer_, they thought furiously. _Show us your true colours, little scribe. Let us see which side you stand with instead of hiding in your words_.

“To lose Her Grace,” Raziel said, ashen, “is terrible.”

“Then they shouldn’t have questioned Her, should they?” Uriel growled.

The other angel nodded shakily. “No, of course not. No one– I mean, what kind of idiot would do that?” He laughed, bright and brittle. “So… so what happens to them? Do they… is it… are they to become something else?”

Uriel stalked onwards. “You ask too many questions.”

Raziel didn’t breathe another word, not until they reached the crackling flames of the celestial boundaries. Uriel heard him make a sharp sound of distress at the sight of their brethren being driven through the gates.

“They earned this,” Uriel said, stopping at the threshold. “Watch them, scribe. Remember this. Your records must be… accurate: this is what we do to those who rebel against the will of the Almighty.”

“But,” Raziel sounded lost, “doesn’t She love them?”

Uriel gave him a pitying look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Raziel stared at them as if he couldn’t understand. “She ordered this?”

Uriel narrowed their eyes, stepping closer to him. “Do you _question_ the will of your creator, scribe?”

Raziel backed away, his eyes flicking wildly to the torrent of the damned. They were Falling now, the celestial pathways giving way beneath them. Their screams and despair carried in the air as they plummeted in every possible way from God’s favour.

“N-no,” he stammered, his hands clenched in fists in front of his breast. “Of course not.” His eyes were bright and wet. “I only– I feel sorry for them. For…” He waved a shaking hand in their direction. “They were our _brothers_.”

“They were traitors,” Uriel said. “You would know that if you had seen the battlefield.” They took him by the shoulder, forcing him forward, forcing him to look and witness the fate of any who made the mistake to turn on them. “Watch, Raziel. Record. Remember.”

Raziel stared out over the plains, his body rigid as iron under Uriel’s hand. “I _will_,” he breathed as hot, silent tears streaked down his face. “I’ll _remember_.”


	2. Pre-4004BC - Reckless Abandon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing the writer's equivalent of Inktober based off a list of prompts and entirely focus in the Inverse world, so you'll be getting a slew of new missing scenes over the next month :) Some may be short, others may be long. They will be ping-ponging about all over the place.
> 
> 1st - Abandon

There are plenty of words to describe what it is to Fall.

Aziraphale knew words. They were among his many, many indulgences. And so, accordingly, he knew many ways to describe the sensation of Falling. Desecration of every part. Blasting apart of self and soul. The purity of agony distilled into a heartbeat.

He knelt heavily on the cold, hard ground, the mantle of earth closing above the Fallen, blotting out the view of even the lesser reaches of Heaven. His wings sank around him and he stared blindly at his shaking hands. They seemed the same. _He_ seemed the same, but oh, he was far from it.

Like a limb hewn away, he could only feel the void where it had been, the phantom pain sharp and burning.

Her presence, the fire, the spark, the light at the centre of the universe, was dark. Oh, She was still there. Of course She was. Heaven still glowed, after all. They would not have been so… so very… smug if they could not – if they did not –

And for _what_? For _enjoying_ creation and all the little pleasures that came with it? What was the damned _point_ of creating a world of such raptures, if you were only going to wag a finger and say no, too much, too greedy, too wanton, too, too, too…

Aziraphale hissed through his teeth. They turned sharp against his tongue.

That… was new.

He lifted his eyes towards the closed walls and arching ceiling of… of what? What were they going to call this pit? He didn’t care. He had no intention of ‘enjoying’ the pleasure of their company any more than he had to. They had brought wrath down on him purely by their presence, though he knew they judged him as harshly as their precious _luminous_ brethren on High.

Damn you all, he thought darkly. First chance I get, I am leaving you down here and I am going to enjoy _every_ damn thing I please, as much as I like, whenever I want. He bared his teeth – so sharp they stung – at the blind sky. Oh, I’ll indulge, he swore under his breath, and with such reckless abandon you will rue the day you thought to condemn me for it.

When the moment came, it came – to his mirth and satisfaction – in the shape of a plump, ripe apple that tasted of sin and freedom.


	3. 4004BC - First Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d heard Her voice, issuing the decree. She spoke so rarely to them now, a reproachful maker to recalcitrant creations. The humans had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, She said, and they would leave the Garden. That was all she had said. They would leave the Garden.  
It wasn’t– She’s never said anything about them… Falling, really, did she? Technically? Okay, yeah, Heaven seemed to agree the latent implication was there, but implication wasn’t the divine voice now, was it? She was the type to… well… call a spade a spade.  
And hadn’t She said, when she made them, that they were to be… cherished? Wasn’t that the exact word?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Raziel makes my wee heart grow ten sizes.

The worst of the rain storms were over.

Raziel had huddled with the demon beneath the trees until there was a lull. They didn’t really say anything to each other as water dripped in on them and streams of the stuff trickled around their bare feet. There wasn’t much _to_ say, not to someone he wasn’t even meant to speak to.

As soon as the skies cleared, even a little, he folded in his stiffened wings, giving the demon and awkward, tentative smile. “You should be all right from here,” he said. “I think they’re more annoyed with the humans than you just now.”

The demon eyed him. “Righto, then.”

Almost at once, he was gone, somehow slithering beneath the undergrowth despite walking on two legs.

Raziel remained where he was.

Another storm blew in a few minutes later, shaking the branches of the trees around him, and he watched the rain cascade in torrents, bouncing and rippling off the leaves. There was something beautiful about it all, the shape and form of nature. _Precipitation_, a thought whispered across his mind.

It all seemed so simple, when the knowledge was given to him so freely.

He glanced in the direction of the wall, the direction of the gateway out of Eden, where two little creatures had stumbled out into the blistering heat of the world beyond

The humans, he thought, pushed to the boundaries, cast out into a world without.

He’d heard Her voice, issuing the decree. She spoke so rarely to them now, a reproachful maker to recalcitrant creations. The humans had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, She said, and they would leave the Garden. That was all she had said. They would leave the Garden.

It wasn’t– She’s _never_ said anything about them… Falling, really, did she? Technically? Okay, yeah, Heaven seemed to agree the latent implication was there, but implication _wasn’t_ the divine voice now, was it? She was the type to… well… call a spade a spade.

And hadn’t She said, when she made them, that they were to be… cherished? Wasn’t that the exact word?

If they left the garden, that technically, _technically_, didn’t negate the earlier order, did it? At least, he hoped not.

He fidgeted where he stood, chewing his lip.

He wasn’t even really _meant_ to be there, not… officially anyway, but he’d wanted to help in some way. It was why he’d made some blathering excuse to Gabriel about needing to do stock check in Eden after the humans’ rule violation. He’d… oh Lord, he’d _lied_ to Gabriel and for what? Some use he’d been, babbling at the frightened exiled humans in a language they didn’t even understand about things they couldn’t comprehend, and lobbing a bloody great flaming sword at them.

“Bugger…” he whispered to himself. “Idiot.”

He squelched his way back ground the garden, pausing below the Tree of Knowledge and scribbling down a note of the number of fruit on his wax tablet. Some use, that fruit was, he thought gloomily. Knowledge, yeah, but not anything useful. Just… good and evil, and wasn’t that all subjective, depending on your point of view?

Least it could have done was give them knowledge of how to start a bloody fire. Although really, poking anything dry with that sword would do it. But how the Hell were they meant to know how to do anything? They couldn’t even read or write! Or know anything useful!

He tapped his stylus on the edge of his tablet.

Bet they didn’t even know about anything else. They’d lived in a walled-in garden for Heaven’s sake! How on earth were they meant to survive when everything had been made to perfection for them? It wasn’t as if they had an instruction manu–

Raziel stared down at his tablet.

A manual.

A book with all the information they could possibly need about the world around them and everything. A book created even before they had been formed from the earth. A book that was obsolete to everyone else who might see it, especially – for example – the divine Maker who had written it and didn’t really need a copy.

She’d always insisted he write it all down, so he had. A lot of the other angels thought it was pointless. They knew what She wished them to know. Why would they need it written down? It was… unnecessary.

But what, Raziel thought, turning to stare at the hole that led out of Eden, if it wasn’t? What if it had never been meant for the angelic host? What if it had been meant for someone else entirely? People who had learned right from wrong through disobedience, but just needed a gentle nudge back in Her direction?

He folded up his tablet, slipping it into the pouch at his belt, and looked Heavenwards.

“Is that what it’s for?” he asked in a whisper. “To help them see a way back after touching the…”

The tree.

The tree that opened their eyes.

He clasped his hands together in front of his mouth, realisation sinking in. Humans were made to be different from the Host, he remembered. They were given free will and the ability to choose and think and live. And how could they have done that within the walls of Eden’s perfection? Existing, he knew, wasn’t living.

Was that why the tree was in the Garden? To give them the means to leave? A key to a door they didn’t know was open to them?

Raziel stared, wide-eyed, at the Heavens. “Oh…” He breathed. “Sneaky.” Couldn’t just give them a whole world, not when there were angels and demons out there who would cry rage about it. But… but _drive_ them out into it? Couldn’t be giving them it, if it was a punishment, eh?

Her cherished humans…

Well, they were out of Eden now, which meant they were out of Heaven’s purview, which meant… which meant they wouldn’t be cherished anymore, would they? Not unless someone did their job beyond those walls. And really, wasn’t that what he’d been told to do? Cherish? Regardless of where they were? She _had_ been pretty specific about the cherishing after all.

Raziel glanced around, then hurried back towards the hole in the wall. It was big enough for two humans, so it was easily big enough for a skinny angel to scramble through it. If he was lucky, Leliel would still be too busy panicking over their dereliction of duty to notice someone else dashing away across the sands outside of Eden.

For two mortals who had never been beyond the walls of the Garden before, they had covered a lot of ground and the rain had washed a lot of their footprints away.

In the end, he had to unfurl his wings and take to the air, circling above until he spotted the two little specks hurrying across the sand, the throbbing power of the sword a beacon. Raziel swooped down over them, yelping and veering sideways when the bigger of the two swung out with the sword, forcing a crash-landing into the sand.

“Ow…”

The smaller of the two, the one with the new life growing inside, helped him back up, dusting him down. They looked worried.

“I’m all right,” he said with a sheepish smile. They glanced, bewildered, at their mate. Oh. Right. Wrong language. Maybe it was a bit rude, but he tentatively touched their minds, taking the shape of their words, and said again, “I’m all right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Both humans laughed in relief.

“Forgive me,” the bigger one said, holding the sword away from their body. “We feared vengeance.”

“Understandable,” Raziel said. He glanced around. From the air, he’d seen a forest on the far horizon. “Look, we need to keep moving. Night’ll be coming soon and I’m not sure what dangers are out here.”

The smaller one searched his face. “You have come to… help us?”

Raziel smiled warmly. “Yes,” he said, reaching out to squeeze their hand. “I’ve got so much to teach you both.”

They exchanged looks again, then smiled back at him.

“Thank you,” the big one said, clasping Raziel’s arm. “_Thank you_.”

Raziel felt a warmth well up in his chest that he hadn’t felt for eons, not since the stars were set in their places in the sky. Yes, he thought with absolute certainty, they were to be cherished and he would see it done.

“Come with me,” he said, taking each of them by the hand. “I’ll keep you safe.”

And above them, as he led them on across the desert, the clouds scattered and the sun shone again.


	4. 3942BC - First Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale discovers yet another indulgence.

Humans were very inventive little creatures.

They had come up with a plethora of delightful things. Sex was definitely in the top ten, although Aziraphale couldn’t decide whether it came above or below baking. After all, a _really_ good dessert was very nearly as good as an orgasm (male-form only, though, and over just as quickly. Female… well… that would require a substantially more creative buffet of deserts and treats).

He considered their latest development curiously.

They had been working on it for quite some time.

Fermenting seemed to be a bit of a hit-or-miss skill. One poor woman had lost an eye when her attempt at brewing had exploded. Too hot, too cold, too big, too small, stirred too much or not quite enough. It was a very particular science, one that the ladies excelled at.

This particular inn, middle of nowhere in the Indus valley, had developed quite the reputation and he was nothing if not curious about it. He held up his coin and a clay jug and cup were produced at once.

He poured the liquid and sniffed it. There was something grainy in the scent, reminding him of yeast and bread. A film of froth clung to the surface, but that seemed to be part of the drink itself, so he shrugged and tried it.

It wasn’t bad at all. There was certainly potential there once they worked out how to remove the grittiness of the grains that had slipped in. He smacked his lips and drained the cup, then refilled it. Not bad at all. Very pleasant even. And better on the second cup and more so on the second jug.

By the third jug, he had changed his mind. It was _wonderful_ stuff. He told the innkeeper so, then told everyone else in the inn. A few of them raised their cups and cheered in agreement. And, in the spirit of indulging – himself and everyone else – he threw a bag of coins on the bar and insisted that there were to be drinks for everyone! They could all have a splendid time!

A good number of jugs later, Aziraphale reeled happily out of the inn, pausing to indulge in yet another human activity. He giggled as he pissed up the side of the wall. Humans always stared when he hit the edge of the roof. S’their own fault for not practising enough. Just need some resolve and good pressure.

Something cold and sharp touched under his ear.

“Your money, old man.”

Aziraphale blinked, turning around, entirely forgetting the business at hand.

The young gentleman – holding a polished stone knife – recoiled, yelping. “What–”

Aziraphale peered down at himself. “Oh. Oh dear.” He gave the lad a smile. “Too much beer, I think.”

The boy stared at him then swung that knife again. “Give me your money!”

Azoraphale blinked at him, puzzled. “Why? Are you selling me that knife? My dear, I really don’t need one.”

The lad’s face twisted up. No wonder he was confused, if he was trying to sell a knife to a stranger. “No!” He jabbed the knife closer. “I’m robbing you.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together in delight. “Wonderful!”

“Wh-what?”

“Are you jealous?” Aziraphale trotted forward a step, daintily stepping over his puddle. “Is that why? I do so _love_ the taste of avarice! Or is this purely greed?” He paused, staring in delight. “Ooh! Oh, do say it’s lust! I haven’t had any in such a long time!”

“You…” The boy was backing away. “What in the name of the Gods is wrong with you?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, that’s just rude. Here I am, enjoying your robbery and you insult me? Tsk, tsk.”

“Enjoying? Enjoying my robbery?!?”

“Why?” He blinked at the boy. “Weren’t you?”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy–” The knife was swinging again. “Give me your money!”

Aziraphale folded his arms. “Shan’t.”

“I’ll kill you!”

He sniffed. “I doubt that, my dear.”

The blade flashed out again and abruptly stopped with a wet, meaty sound.

Aziraphale sighed, turning his hand and looking at the knife stuck right through his palm. “Oh for Satan’s sake,” he sighed and held out his hand. “Look, take it back and we’ll try again, all right? You really need to aim better.”

The boy’s eyes were as wide as plates and he turned around and ran off, screaming.

“Oh.” Aziraphale watched him go with a puzzled frown. “Bugger.” He pulled out the knife himself, the palm knitting closed at once. “Well… I suppose I oughtn’t say no to a free knife…” He gave it a careful wipe, then tucked it into his belt and – as an afterthought – tucked away the emptied human part too.

He glanced up at the sky, stars still spotting everywhere. Late enough that few people about, but still early enough that the inn was still open.

Well, he had made a little more room inside, hadn’t he?

Time, he decided, for one more drink.

He reeled around and happily tottered back into the bar for another round.


	5. 3467BC - Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a character death in this chapter. Have been avoiding this one for some time, but needed it out of m'noggin.

Raziel darted through the deserted streets, lit by moon and starlight.

He was late and he only hoped he wasn’t _too_ late.

A lamp glowed softly in the window of the small mud-brick house, a flickering golden light spreading out from it, the silence of the night only broken by the chirp of crickets and the rustle of the breeze through the streets.

The rattling strands of the curtain over the doorway made the occupants of the house turn when the angel ducked in through the doorway. One pair of dark eyes turned to him, and the lines of sorrow deepening around them broke the angel’s heart.

“Is she–”

“Mm,” Eve breathed. Laid out on the mats, beneath a lovingly woven blanket, she was a frail shell of the woman she had been.

Two years earlier, her head had started to hurt. Raziel had – of course – helped. Diminished the strange lump swelling there. A simple miracle for a minor ailment of the body. Only it turned out it hadn’t been as minor as they thought.

Six increasingly panicked miracles later over several months, Raziel thought he had pushed the growth back. It was _gone_. He’d made sure it was gone, but time and again, it came back. He would’ve kept fighting. Had intended to keep fighting. Wanted desperately to keep fighting it.

But after the seventh attempt, as he slipped from the small town, the scent of Holy Fire and decimation reached him. He didn’t know many angels, not by name anyway, but he recognised the gold-grinning creature waiting for him at the gates. An armed angel with a sword. One of the swords he had seen wielded to drive their brothers and sisters into the Abyss.

A sword that had been raised and laid against his chest.

“A message from the Archangels, Raziel,” Sandalphon said.

“O-oh?” He managed, staring down the length of the blade, waiting for the ground to crack open beneath him, drop him downwards. Had they learned? Did they know everything he had done? Was this how he… how it ended?

“Stop fighting a losing battle,” the stocky angel said. “Seven is a blessed number, but not for her. No more miracles for that one.”

Eve.

Raziel swayed back from the sword. “But she’s–”

“Not to be touched. Their fall was her doing. She will have no more grace.” Sandalphon’s teeth glittered oddly in something that wasn’t a smile and his blade pressed, the tip piercing Raziel’s robe. “Next time, there won’t be a warning.”

And with a sound like a thunderclap, he vanished, leaving Raziel shaking, a spreading rose of red blooming across his chest.

Raziel hated himself for his cowardice, but the command – and the threat – of Heaven had to be obeyed. Without his miracles, the swelling returned. He did what he could, finding roots and berries and plants that could be turned into medicines to ease the pain, offered her tinctures blended from poppies, crushed leaves from far-off lands, anything that he could that wouldn’t bring him under the merciless scrutiny of Heaven.

Nothing stopped it.

The weight melted from her bones. She grew thin and drawn, spending more of her time asleep or curled on her sleeping mat than anything else. She could barely eat, little more than spoons of soft pastes, and her senses and memory was gradually being pressed away by the vicious swelling lump knotting in her brain.

He approached the mat, kneeling down opposite Adam. Eve’s bone-thin hand groped out for the angel’s and he took it at once, clasping it between his. Her grip was so light he could barely feel it anymore and he blinked hard, trying to force down the trembling emotion. He didn’t need to hide it in his face, her vision long-since gone, but she could always tell in his voice.

“I brought you some more of that nectar you like,” he said, praying his words weren’t shaking too much. “The one from the east.”

Her lips twitched, but despite several laboured breaths, the words seemed to catch in her throat. Her fingertips pressed butterfly light against the side of his palm.

“She’s grateful,” Adam said, sounding as unsteady as Raziel himself. The man’s hair had gone from silver to white, watching his wife slowly wasting away in front of him.

Raziel tried to find something to say. Clever. Funny. Silly. Something to make her smile, but that burning knot in her head was there and he couldn’t do anything without threat of death or damnation or both and he wanted– he couldn’t– he just–

Mutely, he lifted her hand to his cheek, pressing his eyes closed. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry I can’t stop this. I’m sorry I’m such a coward.

A moment later, Adam whispered, “The nectar?”

Raziel nodded, fumbling with the pouch at his hip and pulling out the small clay vial. He handed it over to the man, unwilling to relinquish Eve’s hand. He stroked her knuckles, watching her face as Adam tenderly dripped a little nectar onto her lips. For a long moment, there was no response, then a small sigh.

“Can you stay?” Adam asked softly, his voice hoarse. “It… only a little while? She would want you here.”

Raziel nodded, his eyes burning. “Of course.” He tried to gather himself. “And she can laugh at me again. You always laugh at me, don’t you?” His thumb quivered across her knuckles, each jut of bone so sharp. “If I’m not weaving wrong, I’m drinking wrong or eating wrong, eh, little human?”

“Yes,” Adam latched onto the frantic forced happiness in his voice. “Remember the time she tried to have you shear sheep?”

Raziel remembered and laughing – and weeping – they exchanged anecdotes, so many stories and tales and memories. Of the first woven cloths. Of children long gone or those still walking. Of songs and laughter and Eve’s most colourful invectives.

Of…

Of…

Raziel felt the air stir before he knew and looked up. The figure above them was familiar. He had seen it before, a shadow of a fear and a thought, given shape. Raziel pressed Eve’s hand to his lips, heart wrenching in his chest.

“It’s time,” he whispered.

Adam stooped over her, keening and pressing his brow to hers.

Death reached down one long, bony hand and – for the briefest atomic split of a second – Crowley saw her shade as she had been in life, bright and vital and smiling. Then she and the robed figure were gone and the only sound that remained were the mortal and heartbroken sobs of the wire-thin man curled over her.

His own cheeks streaked with tears, Raziel wrapped an arm around Adam’s shoulder and together, they wept for their beloved friend.


	6. 3465BC - The Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam groped out until he found Raziel’s wrist. “Forgive us,” he said hoarsely. “We have failed you.”  
“What do you mean?” Raziel asked, frowning. “Everyone seems well and content.” Except, he thought, worried, most of the adults.  
“Your book,” Adam whispered. “It has gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was inevitable, wasn't it?

Raziel’s feet had barely touched the ground when the throng of small children swarmed around him, demanding hugs and laughing. Every time he came, there seemed to be more of them, all of them growing so fast.

He still remembered the first two and oh, how he hoped he had helped enough to prevent something like that happening all over again.

“I have a special flower!” One of the small boys thrust a crumpled orchid towards him. “We found it by the water!”

“I made bricks!”

“An’ I got cheese!”

Voice after little voice flooded over and he smiled, crouching down, listening to each of them telling him what they had learned in his absence. Most of them knew their letters and some of them could even write now and–

“Your pardon, Raziel.”

The angel looked up, startled.

Usually, the adults let him linger with the children for a while, but the young woman standing just out of the circle of small, skinny brown bodies looked too worried.

He scrambled up at once. “What’s wrong?”

“Grandfather,” the woman said. Sarai, he thought. Or possibly Ishtar. “He– it–” 

Her words failed her and she caught his arm, pulling him towards the sprawling town. Houses once made of sticks were now mud-brick domes, cool shelter against the blistering summer heat. They had come so far in such a short span.

As they walked, he couldn’t help noticing that every other adult seemed as worried as the young woman leading him.

“Is Adam well?” he asked in an undertone. They had seen death. Of course they had. So many now. Only two years had gone by since Eve had left them. But Adam had outlived so many people that many of the humans were starting to wonder if he might be immortal. He wasn’t. Raziel knew he wasn’t. But he would never tell them so, not when they wanted to believe it so much. “Has something happened?”

“He wants to see you,” Sarai said quietly.

At the heart of the village, Adam’s house stood, older and more brittle than the rest. It had been built and rebuilt so many times now, but they had always remained in the same place.

The woman drew aside strings of shells that rattled at her touch, motioning for him to go in.

Raziel ducked through the low doorway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Adam was seated on the floor by the firepit, a woven blanket around his shoulders. He raised his face, though his eyes were white and blind now. “Raziel?”

Raziel crossed the floor to kneel by the man’s side. “They said you wanted to see me.”

Adam groped out until he found Raziel’s wrist. “Forgive us,” he said hoarsely. “We have failed you.”

“What do you mean?” Raziel asked, frowning. “Everyone seems well and content.” Except, he thought, worried, most of the adults.

“Your book,” Adam whispered. “It has gone.”

Raziel’s mind went blank as he stared at the man. They kept it safe. That had been one of the conditions of leaving it with them. Adam had crafted a chest for it, vowing on his life that no harm would come to it. Even as it had worn and faded with time, they had kept their word, decade on decade, century on century.

“Gone,” he echoed. “How?”

Adam shook his head, his wrinkled brow creasing. “No one knows. No one will say. It was there, as always, until three nights ago. I always look in on it, every morning, every noon, every night.” He squeezed Raziel’s wrist painfully hard, his once-strong fingers bony talons now. “No one came in. No one took it. I heard nothing.”

“Maybe the children…” he began, but that made no sense. If they had come in, one of the younger elders would have chased them out. And the book wasn’t small. None of them could easily have lifted it from the chest without disturbing their grandfather.

A terrible thought took shape in his mind, but he quashed it, praying it didn’t show on his face. If it did, if the humans knew of the sudden wash of terror and panic that had flooded him, they would worry too and they didn’t need that.

“Forgive us,” Adam repeated . “We thought it was safe.”

Raziel held up his free hand, trying to ignore the tremor. “It’s all right. You’ve learned everything that’s in it already and your childrens’ children know it all as well. If you want to ask more, you know you can.”

“But it’s your word,” Adam protested. “Your gift to us.”

Raziel tried to keep his smile in place. “It’s made of Heavenly stuff,” he said. “Maybe it isn’t made to last in mortal places. Don’t worry. It’s not the end of the world. As long as it’s remembered, that’s all that matters.”

Turned out he was a better liar than he’d realised and the old man smiled in relief, clasping his hand.

“Thank you,” he rasped, voice shaking with emotion. “We– I was afraid we had offended you.”

“No,” Raziel assured him gently, mind whirling. “Not me.”

The book wouldn’t just vanish, no matter what he said. Something – someone – had discovered it after half a dozen centuries. They had taken it.

_Her _word, committed to the page in ink and sweat and blood. There was sacred knowledge there, ancient magics, things that were Heavenbound, not meant for mortal planes or mortal hands and yet, he’d handed it over to them and–

“Raziel?”

He looked up, cheeks hurting from the pain of smiling. The young woman was back in the doorway, watching him. Her relief was as tangible as the old man’s. “Yes?”

“There is food. Will you stay for some?”

It was such a human thing, to share sustenance, and on any other occasion, he would have, but his mind was spinning circles of panic and he would be no good company for anyone, not like that.

“I can’t,” he apologised. “I only came for a flying visit to see how you were all getting on.”

Sarai nodded and he had a feeling she could see through his façade. “You know you’re always welcome within our walls, Master Angel.”

He fled.

Not that he would call it that, but as soon as he’d said what needed to be said and embraced the thronging children, he was out of the village and into the air before they could call on him and change his mind.

Hell or Heaven.

That was the question.

Whoever had the book had the knowledge of the Almighty. Only some, it was true, but the distilled knowledge She had considered valuable enough to have him write down. Most of it, the Host would have known before the– well, everyone had been there when She had created everything, so technically, they should have known it all, so even if – hypothetically – Hell had got hold of it, they wouldn’t be looking at anything new.

But then again, he was the only one who sat and listened to everything.

There was bound to be stuff that the Host hadn’t been paying attention to while they were out forging galaxies and building cellulose into delicate wreaths of living greenery. The fact that some of the same Host were now demons, bent on the destruction of Heaven and humanity…

He swore in the human tongue. They had made some very good words to use. Very good ones. Eve had been especially good at coming up with them, especially during her labour pains. Some of them could be very, very specific.

For centuries, they hadn’t noticed! What had changed? Why had they noticed it?

It couldn’t be because the humans were learning. The humans had always been learning. That wasn’t anything new. They were just sharing their knowledge around a lot more. Yes, all right, there had been that drama with the worshipping of the stars, but Adam’s lot had knocked it on the head with some…

He hovered in the air, staring wildly at the sky.

They had used quotes from the book to remind people who deserved their praise.

Someone must have heard them. Her words on the tongues of humans.

No, no, no, no, no…

Someone had heard, someone had worked it out, and someone had gone into Adam’s house and taken Her words from them.

He swept back down to earth, landing on the surface of a lake and pacing back and forth.

Right. So the book was gone. Someone had it. Was it better to head back to Head Office and explain? Surely repenting was better than pretending to know nothing? Or… or would that be worse? If they found out what he had done and how long he’d been doing it for, how much he’d helped the exiled humans? He wasn’t _meant_ to do anything with them. Influence, yes. Not sit down and laugh and talk and rock their children to sleep. Not… teach them anything. Not give them anything.

If giving them the flaming sword was bad, then the Book…

He chewed on his thumbnail, walking in circles.

If Hell had it…

Oh Lord…

He dropped to crouch on the water, staring down into the clear depths. Fish skittered below, silver and shimmering in the sunlight.

If the Book turned up, then he was going to be in a world of trouble, no matter who had it.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to withdraw from the eyes of humanity, just for a little while. Still influence, of course, but…

But no more stories around the fire, no more meals with them, no more… human things.

He touched the pouch at his belt, the tokens given to him by the excited youngsters. Shiny pebbles and flowers and a string of beads they had made. He– they– it was impossible for him to keep them, not if he wanted to do damage control. With shaking fingers, he drew them out, pressing his lips together. The love shone out from each little thing, every one of them given with all the affection they should never have had for him.

He forced himself to tip his hand. The trinkets and gifts fell, some floating briefly on the surface, then sinking below.

Serve the humans, he thought numbly. Keep doing the required duties, and hope that nothing would come of it all.

For weeks, it seemed like maybe he was worrying about nothing. He did his duties, limiting his contact with the humans as much as he could, no matter how much it ached to see them just out of his reach. He kept his head down and his ears open, but nothing changed. Orders came in. Order were obeyed. He was a _Good_ Angel.

Of course, they wouldn’t want him to know if he was under suspicion.

In hindsight, he couldn’t help wondering how long they had been watching him, both before and after the book was stolen.

When the hammer fell, he didn’t see it coming.

As usual, he went to Gabriel for his orders once a year, ascending from the small house he had carved out among the mountains. They thought him very strange for living on earth, but he’d been efficient at his work, so they conceded proximity was simpler. Less commuting for one thing.

For an annual briefing, the hall was surprisingly empty. A handful of other angels were scattered about, only a few he knew to speak to.

Raziel wasn’t too concerned. He always tried to be early to catch up on any news.

Sometimes, hindsight was a bastard.

“Raziel!” The boom of Gabriel clapping his hands together almost made Raziel jump out of his skin. “Right on time, as usual.”

Raziel ducked his head with a respectful smile. “Gabriel.”

Gabriel – though – wasn’t smiling. His expression was… odd. Not the usual, amiable, dismissive one. Something a bit sharper and almost concerned. “Raziel,” he repeated. “Raziel of the Book.”

Raziel’s insides twisted in a sudden, panicked knot. Like him, most of the angels considered the book an irrelevance, something unnecessary that they neither wanted nor needed. “The Book?” he echoed, clenching his hands tightly into balls to stop them shaking.

Lines creased around Gabriel’s eyes, but his mouth wasn’t doing anything like a smile. “I’ve been hearing some worrying things,” he said with grave earnestness. “I’m hoping you can help explain them to me.”

Footfalls were approaching. Other angels. Raziel wanted to turn, to look, to know what he was up against, but he couldn’t tear himself from Gabriel’s violet eyes.

“What kind of things?” he asked, his mouth dry.

“Nothing you can’t clear up, I’m sure.” The smile that wasn’t a smile widened. “I want to see your Book.”

Some of Adam’s choicest profanities danced on the tip of Raziel’s tongue. “M-my Book? Why?”

“You always said Her word had meaning and needed to be preserved.” Gabriel’s eyes bored into his. “I’d like to see it.”

Three choices: bluff ignorance, lie to the face of at least one – probably more – Archangel or come clean and try to prove himself a good angel.

“S’gone.” His voice cracked.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Gone,” he echoed flatly. “Gone _where_?”

Raziel’s palms burned, nails carving into them. “I–I don’t know.”

“You don’t… know.” Gabriel’s not-smile was back and hard. “Her word, _Her_ divine knowledge, and you don’t _know_ where it is?”

Raziel shook his head, trying very hard to remember how to breathe.

Two more angels stepped around to flank Gabriel. Raziel’s heart stopped.

Uriel and Sandalphon.

“What did you do with your book, Raziel?” Uriel murmured, their dark eyes fixed on his face.

“D-do?”

Their lips turned up. Another not-smile, this one sharp as the blade at their hip. “Do you want to tell us how it came to be in human hands?”

No. No no no no no…

Lie. Bluff. Say anything. Do nothing. Something.

Raziel backed away a step, but a hand pressed between his shoulder blades, stopping him in his tracks.

“We hear you’ve been a… Bad Angel, Raziel,” Michael murmured close to his ear. “Why don’t you defend yourself? If you’re innocent, surely there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Raziel shivered violently, clutching his hands over his chest. If he confessed, if he condemned himself, if he said anything…

“We know the humans had the book,” Uriel said, eyes glittering. “They have Her words now. They know speech and letters. I wonder how that could be, when they left the Garden ignorant and empty-handed.”

Panic was welling up, rapid and dizzying, but if he didn’t say _something_ to defend himself, then he’d be as readily condemned as their brethren. He tried not to think of the screams as they Fell. He tried not to imagine the pain of Her grace being stripped from him.

“I gave it to them,” he blurted out.

Gabriel blinked as if someone has doused him with cold water. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting a confession. “You… _gave_ it to them? Her word? To… _humans_?”

Raziel nodded, shrinking back, only to run into the solid wall that was Michael. “I-I-I taught them,” he stammered. “She– when She made them, She said to cherish them and I thought – I mean, she never said not to cherish them and I thought she wouldn’t want them to just _die_ because if they just died, then they wouldn’t learn anything and if they didn’t know how to learn, how could they understand everything they had lost?” Oh. Oh, that… that was an angle that could work. “I mean, it’s a bit of a pointless lesson if you think you’re… fine and everything’s all good, because you don’t know how perfect things could have been if you hadn’t given in to temptation and–”

“You taught them _Her_ knowledge to remind them of their loss?” Even Gabriel didn’t look convinced.

Raziel nodded wildly. Better to make them believe that.

“You didn’t need to give Her word to anyone below,” Uriel snarled. “It was given to _us_, not to them. Not the ones who betrayed her. Your humans have gone against her before. What if they had given it into the hands of Hell?”

“They already know all of it,” he said automatically, then bit his stupid clumsy tongue. 

“Already. Know.” Uriel’s expression hardened like ice.

“Well,” Raziel swallowed hard, “they were here. Still here. In Heaven, I mean. When it was written. Nothing there they didn’t hear along with all of us. I mean, they were–”

Gabriel held up a hand when Uriel snarled, baring their teeth. “This isn’t about the Fallen,” he said coolly to the angel at his side. “This is about the humans. That book wasn’t _for_ them, Raziel. You had no right or reason to give it to them.”

_Every right_, Raziel thought miserably. _Every reason. My book. Her will. They needed it. We didn’t._

“Where is it now?” Michael’s voice hummed with quiet authority.

“Contained,” Uriel spat. “We can’t risk it again. It must be destroyed.”

“No!”

Gabriel sighed. “Can you tell me you _wouldn’t_ do something this stupid again?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, searching Raziel’s face with those unsettling eyes.

Not stupid, Raziel wanted to say. Needed. Necessary. Why the damn thing was written in the first place.

Michael’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Given the chance,” they murmured, far more terrifying than Uriel’s burning rage, “would you betray the will of Heaven again, Raziel? Think very carefully before you answer.”

“No!” It was meant to be a defiant shout, but it slipped out as a whisper. “Of course not.” He clasped his hands tight around one another. “I mean… I didn’t think… no one said not to…”

“Enough of this,” Uriel snapped. “There’s only one way we can be sure. Be rid of it.” Their dark eyes fixed on his face. “Be rid of _him_.”

Raziel’s world swam before his eyes. He could see it already: marched to the boundaries, Uriel’s sword at his back, forced to step out, forced into nothingness, forced to…

Would he scream, he wondered. Would he scream as he Fell?

He folded onto his knees, pressing his clasped hands to his brow. “Please. Not that. Please.”

They were talking over him, heated, raised voices. A cacophony of noise and he couldn’t make out a word. Michael’s fingers were still tight on his shoulder, the only thing keeping him from slumping completely on the ground before them.

Abruptly, they were silent.

Michael’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Up, Raziel.”

He stumbled to his feet, pushing his hair back from his face with a trembling hand.

Silently, the other three angels turned and walked towards the door. Raziel recoiled, heart in his throat, but Michael pushed him onwards.

They descended from the halls into the Plains and his legs were shaking so hard beneath him. If he made a break for it, he could run for the exit, get out, hide on earth. Surely, they couldn’t Fall him from there. But there were four of them and all of them had battle experience and he didn’t.

If he ran, Uriel would consider it proof of treason. He’d seen them with blood on their blade before. They wouldn’t even hesitate.

“Michael,” he whispered, “please. Don’t.”

The ancient angel, oldest of their number, gazed at him. “The decision has been made.”

Simple as that, eh?

Funny that impending doom lifted the rock of numbing terror off his tongue.

“I think She wanted them to have it.”

Michael said nothing, but they were listening. Michael was always good at that: watching and listening and taking things into account.

“I mean, She made sure it was written and She knew we wouldn’t need it.” He risked a glance back. Michael was unreadable. Always had been. “Who else could it possibly have been for if it wasn’t for them?”

Michael pushed him gently but firmly onwards. “If it is Her will for them to have it, they will have it. If not, it’s no loss to us.”

Raziel had to blink hard, his eyes swimming. No reasoning with them. No arguing. The decision had been made and–

And they weren’t going in the direction of the boundaries.

Raziel almost sagged with relief.

No boundaries meant no Fall. He glanced back, searching out the hall of the Throne, a whisper of gratitude on his lips.

It took him a bit longer to realise they were descending. Not just to the lower levels of Heaven, but lower still.

“Wings,” Michael ordered, releasing his shoulder. They own wings flared out and they jerked their head, indicating for him to follow Gabriel, Sandalphon and Uriel, who had leapt and were spiralling downwards towards the world beneath them. Like vultures, he couldn’t help thinking, circling over prey.

They alighted on a rocky outcrop that jutted out the choppy grey waves. Further west than any humans had ventured so far, hundreds of miles from any inhabited piece of land. Raziel stumbled onto the sharp rocks closer to the water’s edge, clinging to the craggy spurs of basalt. Cold water soaked the end of his robe, seeping up, the spray icy on his face.

“Bring it,” Gabriel said flatly.

Uriel gave Raziel a dark look, then made a gesture.

The Book materialised in their grip and Raziel had to stifle another of Eve’s best words. They hadn’t even left the cover behind. Eve had worked so hard on it, once she understood how weaving worked. It was _beautiful_ in the way that only something made with pure love could be.

“Please…” He reached out, but a flash of flaming metal before his face made him recoil.

Sandalphon gave him a gold-tinted grin. “Stay put, Raziel of the Book. Can’t Fall you, but they never said anything about not hurting you.”

Raziel stared at him, then looked beyond him, up at Michael and Gabriel, standing at the top of the outcrop. Gabriel’s lips were pursed, but Michael had their hands folded impassively in front of them, their eyes on Raziel.

“The cover,” he said, holding up both hands submissively, then staggered as a wave slapped high up his thighs. He caught the sharp rocks again, trying to steady himself. “Please. Not that.”

Uriel’s lip curled in disgust and they drew their sword. “You don’t get any say in _any_ of this, Raziel of the Book.” They held the heavy scroll out over the lashing waves and Raziel had to bite down a cry of grief and rage as their blade sliced through it. Shreds of fabric and parchment scattered on the waves, smoking and smouldering and dissolving into nothing.

Blow after blow reduced all of his work, everything he had written, _Her_ words to scraps and cinders and detritus cresting on the foam of the waves, beaten into pulp against the rocks.

The salt on Raziel’s face wasn’t just from the seaspray.

He sank, uncaring of the pain, to his knees, reaching out to grasp a fragile scrap of Eve’s work as it swept closer. A shimmering star, picked out against dark blue. She always loved to learn about the stars. No wonder she decorated it with them.

It slipped through his fingers and away, currents dragging it under.

“No,” he whispered, trying to draw on a miracle, trying to pull it back, but it was gone.

“Enough,” Gabriel said sharply. “Raziel, you will return to your… settlement. You will stay there. You will be under supervision until further notice.”

Raziel didn’t look up, freezing and soaked, the water coiling around him to the waist.

“Raziel of the Book,” Gabriel snapped.

Raziel flinched. Not of the Book. Not anymore. Raziel of the Book wasn’t… not without the Book. Not when they spat it like a curse. Raziel of the Book was gone. Just like the Book was gone. No one left. Just an angel in a cavern in the mountains.

A hand caught his chin, forcing his face up.

“Do you understand what you have been told, Raziel?” Michael murmured.

He stared at them, hot tears still rolling down his cheeks.

“You will be monitored,” Michael said, holding his eyes, as if they wanted to be sure he understood. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

And then they were gone, specks in the sky high above them, and Raziel curled on the rocky outcrop and wept.

___________________________________________

Once, there had been an angel called Raziel.

Everyone in Heaven and Hell had heard of him. He was the angel who defied Heaven and taught humans the forbidden knowledge granted by the Almighty. Angels hated him. Demons wondered if someone like that walked among them.

Crowley didn’t answer to that name anymore.

Every time he heard it, he remembered the burn of salt water on his torn feet and hands, the scent of burning parchment, and the day that his so-called brethren had destroyed his life’s work in front of him for doing what he _knew_ to be right.

They still called him by that name, but then, they never really cared much about the distress they caused to others, even of their own kind.

Crowley much preferred his name of choice. It was a nonsense name, made up by his own silly mind, on the spur of the moment. Crowley. Crow-lee. It sounded much more like him than… the other one. More light, bird-like, bouncing and bright.

A name he had made up to give to a demon, when he tried to save the silly bugger from Heaven’s retribution for tempting the humans.

Funny that they’d never actually gone after the demon, at least as far as he knew. Instead, the humans took the brunt of the punishment. And then, much later…

So Crowley lived in his small home in the mountains. As Michael had cautioned, he was careful. He was watched. He behaved very well. He did his duties. He didn’t stray from them. Obedient, compliant, and in the quiet gloom of his cave, he forged a new language and tried to write down everything he could remember.

It was a lot, too much, and he had barely even begun to scratch the surface when Gabriel came calling.

“What the Hell did you do?”

Crowley stared warily up at the Archangel. They never came to his home. They rarely even condescended to descend to earth. “What?”

Gabriel didn’t even seem to notice the piles of parchment scattered everywhere. “Come with me,” he snapped.

The Archangel led him to a very familiar town – now a city, really – and through the winding streets. The sounds of a celebration were ringing in the air, and despite himself, Crowley glanced around, spotting a few familiar faces. Older now than they had been. Sarai herself was there, silver-haired, and dancing.

And to Crowley’s surprise, Gabriel apparently wasn’t the only angel there. Michael and Uriel were both standing at the head of the hall. Uriel was grey-faced and shaken, but Michael was… well… Michael was Michael.

“What is this?” Crowley demanded, uncertain.

Gabriel dragged him forward and shoved him towards the high table. “What the Hell is _that_?”

Crowley looked and before he could stop himself, one of Eve’s favourite profanities escaped. “Holy shit!”

“Did you do this?” Gabriel demanded. Not just angry, but Crowley could hear the fear in his voice as well. “Did you bring it back?”

It.

The Book.

Spread on the high table before Adam’s many-times-great-grandson, who was beaming around.

“No,” Crowley said with dazed wonder. “No, I didn’t.” He looked up at Gabriel. “You know I don’t have that kind of power.” He leaned down over the table and touched Enoch’s shoulder, letting his words reach the human. “Where did you find this?”

“I was walking by the sea,” Enoch laughed joyfully, telling the tale his brethren were clearly delighted to hear. “I saw a strange bundle washed up on the shore and I was curious.” He rolled up the scroll and spread out a broad pieces of linen. Crowley’s hand leapt to his mouth, tears burning in his eyes. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw grandmother Eve’s cloth!”

Crowley felt a hand at his elbow, steadying him when he swayed. He turned, guarded, and found Michael by his side, a faint whisper of a smile on their lips.

“This must be a trick!” Uriel said and the terror was tangible in their voice. “It– he must have– how can we believe that _She_ did this?”

“Because,” Michael murmured, “She did. No one else would have the power or the knowledge to do so. None of the Host, Heavenly or Diabolical, could draw it back from nothing.” They met Crowley’s eyes. “If it is Her will for them to have it, they will have it.”

“But…”

For a moment, Uriel looked so afraid and lost that Crowley almost felt sorry for them. That vanished the moment the angel angrily stormed from the room.

Gabriel’s lips were pursed, his brows pulled down. “This is going to be… difficult to explain upstairs.”

Crowley nodded, unable to keep from smiling. He had chosen his path and stood by it and it turned out that, despite the views of Heaven, it was the right one. He watched with happy wonder as Enoch unrolled the scroll again, lifting his granddaughter into his lap to show her the words.

“It might be better for Raziel to remain on earth,” Michael suggested mildly. “He seems to… understand the humans and it would save a great deal of”– they frowned thoughtfully–“conflict of interest with the others.”

Like Uriel, Crowley thought. Yeah, it would be much easier to get on with helping the humans without the furious angel breathing down his neck.

Gabriel glanced at him. “What about it, Raziel? Do you want to be our official human liaison? Keep an eye on them? Make sure to keep the demonic influences at bay? Thwart any evil plans you come across?” He flashed a worried, hopeful smile. “Under the auspices of Heaven, of course.”

Michael’s hand tightened gently on Raziel’s elbow, warning and promise that this was probably the best arrangement he could hope for. “We would… check in from time to time, of course,” they murmured. “Keep you updated with duties. You know how it is.”

Crowley managed to nod. “If that’s what you think is best,” he said, trying to keep his face straight.

Informal exile to save them embarrassment and a potential blood feud with Uriel? Getting on with the job he was made to do? Oh, yes, things were definitely looking up.

Michael almost smiled. “Very wise,” they said, then stepped away from him. “Coming, Gabriel?”

Gabriel had returned his worried stare to the scroll and no wonder. He’d authorised its destruction and the Almighty had undone it. That was bound to make any angel nervous. “Hm?”

Michael stepped closer to their brother and took his arm. “We’ll be in touch, Raziel,” they murmured. “Be careful.”

Crowley offered them the slightest of bows, stepping back as they ascended in a flare of light, then he turned, looking around the room.

It was so tempting to step forth and greet all of his old friends, but Michael was right. He had to be careful. He walked a fine line. Better to err on the side of caution until the dust had settled. Better not to risk anything else. If the book hadn’t returned, they wouldn’t have shown mercy. There was no reason to expect that to change if he slipped up.

Instead, he reached out and laid a hand on Enoch’s head, blessing the man once more, before slipping away into the night.


	7. 3402BC - Mesopotamia - Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompt #2 - “There falls no shadow where there shines no sun”- Hilair Belloc

The first of them was gone.

Crowley stood barefoot and silent in the long grass on the road that led into the human city. He could hear the wails and lamentations. The first, so old he had seemed almost immortal by their young eyes. They had believed it too.

He could remember the last time they had spoken, he and Adam, over a lost book and a fault that belonged to neither of them.

Crowley pressed his eyes shut, burying his fingers in the rough fabric of his veil.

He should have gone back. At least once. Once more, before it was too late. Reassured Adam that he – his people – still had a friend. They were a superstitious lot. He knew that. They probably thought he had abandoned them, even though he walked among them, unseen.

But there were – even now – eyes on him and one wrong step was all it would take to deliver him somewhere far worse than that sea-beaten rock.

“Well, well!” A booming voice from behind made him jump like a startled cat. “If it isn’t my umbrella!”

Crowley spun, hastily wiping his cheeks. No mortal, he knew, but it took him a moment to recognise the grinning creature standing a dozen paces away from him. The demon. The demon from the garden. Of _course_ he would be here, at another of humanity’s great losses.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Well, isn’t that _charming_!” the demon sniffed, wandering closer. “Honestly, I come by, all polite and well-mannered and that’s–” He peered at Crowley, frowning. “Good Lord. Are you… are you _crying_?”

“No,” Crowley lied angrily, trying to ignore the wet trickle on his cheek. He knuckled it away and glared at the demon. “Go away. You’re not needed here today.”

The demon was staring at him, bewildered. “Why are you crying?”

“I told you I’m not!”

Abruptly, the demon was less than an arm’s length away and one plump finger scooped a rebel tear off his cheek. “Oh?”

Crowley hissed, swatting his arm away. “Go away!” he shouted angrily, scrubbing at his face with both hands. “Leave them be! Just give them a day, can’t you? Or is it _easier_ when the body is still warm? Do you enjoy making things worse?”

To his miserable shock, the demon recoiled. “What on earth are you _on_ about?”

Crowley stared at him. His cheeks were cold, but he could feel fresh heat on them. “You don’t know?”

The demon threw up his hands. “If I knew what I’m meant to know, it would be very helpful!”

“Adam!” Crowley snapped out. No. Not snapped. It was more like a sob and that was so much worse. So much more humiliating, in front of a _demon_. “Adam is _dead_.”

“Adam…” The demon frowned. “The… the first one?”

Crowley curled his hands into fists and nodded, not trusting his voice or his body not to betray him. He could feel the hot damp like rain on his robe.

The demon’s expression creased into something Crowley couldn’t quite interpret. “Oh.” His slitted blue eyes flicked to the city. “Yes. That would be a… momentous event, I imagine.” He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Very well, _angel_. I will give them a day.”

Crowley’s tensed shoulders sagged. “Thank–”

“Ah, no. Not that,” the demon interrupted quickly. He smiled, sharp and hard. “It’s easier when they’ve exhausted themselves with grieving. I’m just making things simpler for myself.”

The flicker of his eyes said he was lying, but as he swung around and strolled away, Crowley didn’t have the heart to argue.

The angel twisted his hands into his veil, the cloth woven by Eve so many years ago. At least, he thought, fingering the delicate embroidery, she and Adam would be reunited at last. He had a long life. She would be waiting for him.

And as the evening fell, the sun disappeared behind the city.


	8. 3398BC - Rogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 14 - Panic**

Rumours had been spreading through the lower reaches. Aziraphale had heard whispers of it once or twice when he crossed paths with another of the Fallen on earth, but it wasn’t until he reported back to Hell that he received the details of the new intelligence.

Heaven had a rogue angel.

“A rogue angel?” he echoed doubtfully. “Wouldn’t that be one of us?”

Beelzebub drummed their talons on the curved arm of their throne. “It seemzzzz not.”

Aziraphale stared at them, trying to wrap his head around the thought. It was all well and good having a good, old-fashioned rival. The Heaven versus Hell dynamic was repeated time and again among the humans. Good or bad, dark or light, one or another.

A third party did rather muck up the arrangements.

“So they’re still…?” Aziraphale gestured upwards.

The Prince of Hell’s face twisted angrily. “We don’t know.”

Oh. Well. That certainly explained why everyone was a little more tense than usual.

Angels who rebelled Fell. Simple as that.

A rogue angel was actively rebelling, but hadn’t Fallen.

It begged the question of _how_. Every demon in Hell would want an answer to that. Every angel in Heaven too, probably. The Fall was said to be the Divine Will made manifest, but if an angel misbehaved and _didn’t_ Fall, then was that the Divine Will too? What had they done? Why had they been spared the Pit?

“If I may ask, my Lord,” Aziraphale said politely, for while disrespect was part and parcel of his modus operandi, Beelzebub looked in the mood for a fireball or two. “What on earth has this angel done that has everyone in such a tizzy?”

The Prince straightened on their throne. “According to reports gathered by operatives on earth, they gave the Almighty’s knowledge and word to the humans.”

Aziraphale gaped at them. He’d been in enough trouble – or celebrated enough, depending which way you looked at it – for tempting them to the knowledge of good and evil. To just hand over _Her_ knowledge was… well, it was definitely not something either side would approve of, not for the hairless monkeys. “They _never_! _Her_ word?”

“They say it was the one who stood by Her side throughout creation.”

Aziraphale wondered if he looked as shaken as he felt. Everyone had heard of Her quiet little aide, but no one had thought much of them. They were just… there all the time, scribe and secretary and She only knew what else. Not even doing anything much through the creation of… well… everything. But they _knew_ it all. They recorded all of it.

Lord above.

_Everything_.

Beelzebub’s lips drew back from mossy teeth. “It was… recovered some time ago.”

“By Heaven?”

Beelzebub inclined their head, setting a swarm of flies buzzing.

So the angel had been caught, but they hadn’t Fallen. Her Word had been retrieved, so maybe they had brushed it under the carpet. But that wasn’t exactly Heaven’s style, was it?

“Were they executed, then?”

“We. Don’t. Know.”

Ah.

“It is believed,” the Prince said slowly, “that they fled to earth, if they survived.”

A lot of pieces slotted into rather unfortunate place. Why else would they call in the one demon who preferred to spend much of his time roaming the earth rather than lingering in the fetid, stagnant halls of Hell? A knot of panic tightened in his middle.

“You want me to find them.”

Beelzebub tapped their curled knuckle against their lips. “This angel defied the Almighty,” they buzzed. “We need to know if they are also our enemy. Or…” One side of their scabbed lips turned up. “If they are amenable to being our… friend.”

An angel. An angel with the knowledge of the original powers of creation, brave, reckless and dangerous enough to defy Heaven despite witnessing the Fall. And cunning enough to escape their wrath. Oh, that was not the kind of person that Aziraphale had any desire to be in the vicinity of.

“And if I can’t find them?”

The Prince spread their hand. “Then we presume Heaven has dealt with them.” They inclined their head again. “You look concerned, Demon Aziraphale.”

“Concerned?” He forced a smile. “Oh, not at all. Sounds like quite the interesting character, don’t they?” He rocked on the balls of his feet, wondering if it would look like cowardice to run for the doors. “Do we know this rogue angel’s name, my Lord?”

Beelzebub nodded and hissed out, “Raziel.”

___________________________

**3323BC**

After the chilly dampness of Hell, the summer heat of earth was welcoming.

Aziraphale took brief refuge in a delightful new invention – the humans made it by fermenting some of their fruits – and lost several days to pleasant lassitude in charming, welcoming, and – above all else – warm villages.

Unfortunately, with an assigned duty – given by Beelzebub of all people – there was no way to avoid the hunt for the rogue angel.

He’d crossed paths with a few of Heaven’s envoys on earth. Most of them were pompous prigs who pointedly crossed the dirt tracks that served as streets rather than come anywhere near him. One wasn’t, but Aziraphale hadn’t seen him in an absolute age and the last time, the poor shabby skinny little creature was crying over the death of a human.

So he searched, though not with much conviction.

The humans had no idea, which came as no surprise. They scarcely noticed a demon standing right beside them, so the fact an angel might be living in their midst unnoticed was entirely possible.

Days ticked by into years and on through decades, and still, he found no trace. His duties carried him the breadth of the human world and if the angel was hiding there, they were very good. There were miracles, but those were definitely well within the Heavenly targets. Nothing and no one out of the ordinary at all.

In the middle of all of those wanderings, quite by chance, he found himself in the same small town as a certain angel of his acquaintance. They were on opposite sides of a sprawling hall, a feast ongoing around them, a firepit between them.

A happy and perhaps useful coincidence, he thought.

“Um,” Crowley said, fidgeting with his belt as Aziraphale wove his way towards him.

“‘Um’, he says,” Aziraphale said with a cluck of disapproval. “Shouting at me last time, umming at me this time. Shame on you, angel.”

Crowley flushed as red as his hair. “What do you want?” he demanded, squirming self-consciously.

Aziraphale clasped a hand to his heart, shocked. “I’m _astonished_ you think I would want anything. Here I am, trying to be sociable and decent and…” He sighed dramatically. “Lord, one would imagine Heaven’s envoys were at least a little bit _nicer_.”

The angel’s face crumpled in dismay and Aziraphale felt a twinge of something uncommonly like guilt, which was absurd.

“I’m sorry!” The angel was twisting his corded belt over and over around his hands. “It’s just– I mean, I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

Ah. A loyal little soldier for the Heavenly cause. Not so useful after all.

“I see.”

The angel’s eyes were fixed on his face and he chewed on his lower lip, almost biting it to messes. “I – we can talk outside,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out all in a rush, like milk from a burst skin. “I mean, if you want to. For a little bit.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh, you’ve tempted me into it.”

Crowley’s blush returned and he scurried for the door, sandals slapping.

Aziraphale followed, wondering if it was particularly demonic to enjoy seeing an angel blush like a sunset. Probably, he supposed. It meant the angel was discomfited and flustered, which meant they weren’t all sunshine and roses and all that soft nonsense.

Outside the hall, the angel was pacing back and forth, anxiously shooting glances Heavenwards, as if he expected a smiting.

“Don’t worry so much, my dear,” Aziraphale said, sitting down on top of an upturned vat. “They aren’t watching every second of every day.”

The angel’s face tightened in an expression which danced a line between bitter smile and grimace. “They’ve tightened things up lately,” he said, though he did – at least – stop pacing. He folded skinny bare arms over his chest. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Tightened things up?” Aziraphale echoed thoughtfully. That sounded like the kind of thing that would happen after an angel went rogue and caused chaos. “Anything to do with a particular angel giving away God’s knowledge to the hairless wonders?”

Crowley’s face drained of all colour. “You’ve heard about that too?”

Aziraphale snorted. “My dear fellow, _everyone_ has heard about that. My lot want to give the conniving bastard a commendation and a job!”

The angel gaped at him. “But…” His face screwed up in confusion. “But he’s an _angel_.”

“Weren’t we all?” Aziraphale took a deep breath of the warm night air and sighed. “Honestly, trying to find the bastard is like trying to find a single grain of sand on a beach. I have no idea where they might be hiding.”

“You’re… looking for him – them?” Crowley was stock-still. 

The demon made a face. “I’d rather not, to be honest,” he said, “but the Dark Council want to get their claws into the poor sod.” He cocked his head. “Rumour is that they ended up down here somewhere. Have you seen them?”

“Can’t say I’ve met them.” Crowley’s voice was strained. “What do you mean ‘get their claws into’?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Someone who defied Heaven and the Almighty without Falling? I imagine they’d want to use that against upstairs.”

“Oh.” The angel coiled the end of his belt around his hand, wrapping it tight enough to turn the skin bone white. “That doesn’t sound very good.”

“It doesn’t, does it?” Aziraphale agreed. He pushed himself up off the vat. “If you run into them, maybe let them know.”

Honey-brown eyes narrowed, confused and wary. “Know what? That Hell is looking for them?”

“Hell wants them, Heaven may not, blah blah blah.” He paused, rubbing at his cheek. “Tell them to stay out of the way. Safer for them. Safer for all concerned. Quiet and out of trouble or else I suspect things could be worse for everyone.”

Crowley blinked at him. “Aren’t… aren’t you meant to be finding them?”

“Only,” Aziraphale stressed, “if I _can_. If I don’t…” He shrugged expansively. “Well, can’t find what can’t be found, can you, now?” He dusted off the end of his robe with a snap of his fingers. “And to be quite frank, my dear, I would rather give a wide berth to anyone reckless enough to defy the will of both God and Heaven.”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “Very circular way of thinking, that. Don’t look, so you can’t find, can’t find, so you don’t cross, don’t want to cross so you don’t look.”

Aziraphale gave a dignified sniff. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, angel. I have been looking _very_ hard.”

“Like behind that rock?” Crowley suggested and for the first time, there was a little glint that might have been mischief in his honey eyes. “Or under that bucket?”

Aziraphale fought down a laugh. “Quite so. No one has looked as hard or thoroughly as I have looked. The wily creature is always a step ahead.” He gave the angel an extravagant bow. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must continue my search.”

The smile that crept onto Crowley’s face was surprising in its delicate loveliness. “There’s a shack behind the hall. And I think I saw some barrels. You’ll need to give them a good, hard look.”

Aziraphale clasped his heart. “Your aid in this quest will not be forgotten, angel,” he said with as much gravitas as he could muster. Which was, in hindsight, not too much, because when the angel’s smile turned into a grin, he couldn’t help smiling back.


	9. 1880BC - Mount Moriah - Providence

It definitely wasn’t going as planned.

Crowley drew himself up and took a breath. He was an angel of the Almighty, for Heaven’s sake! This was an easy job! Show up with the sacrifice! Not a job anyone could muck up! He dug his heels into the ground and pulled with all the angelic strength he had.

The ram bleated in indignation and kicked and squirmed its way free.

“Oh come _on_!” Crowley yelled as it bolted off back down the hillside. He snapped his fingers, trying to snare it, but the bloody thing seemed to have a heretofore undiscovered sheep super power of avoiding any angel magic.

The angel huffed in frustration.

“Fine!” he yelled after it, as he started down the hill after it. “See? I’m coming after you! Hope you’re happy!”

Shale and shingle slid loose underfoot and he skittered down the hillside, bouncing off a couple of big boulders on the way down.

“Course it had to be at the top of a hill,” he panted, as he jogged after the errant ram. “Couldn’t just be in a field, could it? Nooooo. Had to be all the way up there.” He threw a look skywards. “Better be a good reason for this!”

A few minutes later, he finally caught up with the ram. It had found an outcrop of prickly grass and was munching on it as if it hadn’t just run for its life.

Crowley considered it.

It was a shifty bugger, he had to give it credit, and it had a good turn of speed when it wanted to. So first thing first was to knobble it. He miracled up a big stick. Humans used big stick for poking sheep into place, didn’t they?

The ram lifted its head and gave him a far too intelligent look when he approached.

“Come on, sheepy sheepy sheep,” Crowley said, cautiously inching closer. “Let’s go.”

Three seconds later, he was on his back in the dust and the ram was off again.

So.

Turned out the stick thing was either a lie or a skill he hadn’t learned yet. Crowley scrambled up, wincing, and brushed the dust from his tunic. At least it was heading back up. That was the right direction. He planted the stick into the ground, letting a touch of life flow through it, then jogged on after the ram.

There were goat tracks up the side of the hill, zig-zagging back and forth. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of the yellow-white fleece, then the damned thing bolted again, higher and higher, kicking down loose rocks and pebbles.

“This is ridiculous,” Crowley grumbled as he scrambled after it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He crested the ledge of the hillside and doubled over, panting. Technically, angels didn’t need to breathe, but he liked to. They also didn’t need to get out of breath, but it was the principle of the thing! If you’re running around like a maniac, you get to look the part!

A plaintive bleat caught his attention.

“Aha!”

The ram was up ahead on the boulder-strewn plateau. It was struggling and kicking, but turned out that where angelic strength failed, a prickly hedge with juicy leaves was a worthy opponent. It’s head was well and truly lodged between the branches.

“That’s what you get,” Crowley said smugly, prowling up behind it. “Told you you’d get caught, didn’t…” He frowned at a sharp, frightened cry and peered over the top of the bush.

Ah! There was the very man he’d come to see. Lucky coincidence the ram had come straight to the right place.

Crowley skipped around the bush and unfurled his wings, shaking them out. The Prophets seemed to like the wings. He brushed a last smear of dust from his tunic and moved forward, then stopped dead, staring.

He knew Abraham. Knew Sarah. And Hagar. And the kids. They had quite a reputation, that family. He’d seen them about. Kept an eye on them from time to time.

And none of what he’d seen of them explained why Abraham had his son trussed up on a freshly-built altar like a sheep for sacrifice. He lifted a knife that shone in the sunlight.

Crowley ducked down and grabbed a rock, lobbing at Abraham’s head. “Oi!”

Abraham yelped in surprise, ducking.

Crowley strode towards him. “What are you playing at?” he demanded, snatching the knife out of Abraham’s hand. He sliced at the ropes, untangling the boy from them. “For Heaven’s sake, you don’t just off your son!”

The man tried to grab the knife back. “I was commanded by God!”

“By God…” Crowley stared at him. Abraham stared back at him.

And in the string-taut silence, a plaintive bleat came from behind the angel.

“There’s your sacrifice,” Crowley said, making a face.

Abraham gave a sobbing shout of joy, sagging against the altar.

Crowley continued to pull the young lad free from the ropes. “You all right?”

The boy nodded, scrambling down from the altar. He was pale and looked shaken. No surprise, really. Most people would be a bit shaken up if their dad tried to turn them into a sacred barbecue. “He said God would provide.”

The angel made a flourishing gesture towards the ram. “Ta-da!” He glanced at Abraham. “Maybe take some time in prayer next time?” he suggested dryly. “You never know when the sacrifice might be running late.”

Father and son didn’t even seem to notice him and he sighed. The swell in faith was tangible. Job done, then. Even if it was by accident. Or happy coincidence.

Crowley glanced suspiciously skywards as he picked his way back down the hillside.

“Bit funny, that,” he observed. “The sheep and me showing up at just the right time. And the sheep being able to get away from me so many times. S’almost like we were meant to get there exactly then, according to our director.”

There was no reply.

There never was these days.

“Bet you have popcorn,” Crowley continued, as he meandered his way down the slope. “I mean, don’t blame you for getting free entertainment where you can. Still a bit of a bugger, making me chase the damn thing all over the hills for two hours.”

He paused at the bottom of the slope and glanced up. A column of smoke was curling upwards, pale and thick.

“Enjoy your barbecue,” he said to anyone who might be listening. “I’m off home.”

He turned back north, drew the world around him, and vanished.


	10. 1526BC - Goshen, Egypt - Deliverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 16 - Vanished**

The cock had not yet crowed when the door creaked open.

Jochebed was already tending the morning fire but turned, squinting in the half-light that came before dawn. “Who’s there?”

A woman slipped in, closing the door behind her. “I’m here to help.”

“Help?” Jochebed echoed, frowning. “What help could I need?”

The woman hurried across the floor, crouching down beside her. “He can’t be hidden here anymore.”

Hidden. The world swayed around her and Jochebed sagged back to sit on the floor, her eyes turning automatically to the basket that concealed her youngest son. For three months, she had kept him there, muffling his cries in a nest of blankets, hushing him with milk and drops of honey wine, praying and praying for a miracle that he would escape their attention and his tiny body would not join their kin in the river.

“How did you know?” she whispered.

The woman reached out, catching her hands. “You were heard, daughter of Levi.” By the light of the fire, her eyes shone like fresh honey, her hair the colour of burnished flame, and around her, there seemed to be the shadow of wings and the glitter of a thousand shimmering eyes.

Jochebed shrank back in awe and fear. “He will live?”

The woman – if she was even a woman at all – smiled. “He will, if you will trust me.”

How could she refuse?

“What must I do?”

The woman’s grip tightened on her hands. “Bring him to the river.”

Jochebed tried to wrench her hands free. No. Not to the river. Not where they had watched as hundreds and thousands of small, helpless bodies were cast into the roiling currents and swept away, consumed by the beasts of the waterway, some of them still screaming.

“Not there,” she pleaded, tears spilling down her face at the memory, at the thought of her son being cast into those depths. “They– he will die there.”

The woman leaned closer, lifting her hand to brush the tears from Jochebed’s face. “No,” she said, so gently and kindly that fresh tears rose in Jochebed’s eyes. “He won’t. I’ll take care of him.”

Her hands were trembling, but she folded them in her lap and lowered her head. “What must I do?”

The woman smiled. “A basket,” she said. “Prepare it to withstand the waters. In two days, I will come for you. You must be ready. Do you understand?”

Jochebed glanced over towards the baby’s hiding place. It was a strong basket woven of reeds and sturdy sticks, but would not withstand water. But there were ways and means to make it so. “Two days,” she agreed with a nod.

The woman rocked forwards, cupping Jochebed’s face between her thin hands, and pressed her lips to Jochebed’s brow. As she drew back, Jochebed felt the whisper of a prayer, of a blessing, against her skin, a thrill of wonder running through her.

“Two days,” she reminded her. “Be ready before the cock’s crow.”

“Before the cock’s crow,” Jochebed echoed. “Yes.”

And like a shadow, the woman crossed the floor to the door and was gone.

__________________________________

Miriam clung to her ima’s hand as they hurried through the winding streets, following the strange lady in the dark veil. Ima was breathing hard. She was carrying a big basket, painted all over with black stuff and slime, but she was walking as quickly as she could.

“Where are we going, ima?”

“Hush,” her ima said softly. “We are taking your brother somewhere safe.”

Miriam nodded, running along beside her.

She had heard the other women crying together in the night, when ima thought she was asleep, and some of her friends who once had little brother and sisters too didn’t have them anymore. People had taken them away, they said. Taken them and thrown them in the water. The bad people.

The strange lady waited for them at the end of each street, between the houses. All the doors were closed and all the houses were quiet. It was still dark and the moon wasn’t out, but the lady was holding a light in her hand, leading the way. The light made funny shadows all around her. She almost looked like a bird with shadows like big wings behind her.

When Miriam looked at her, the lady smiled and put a finger to her lips, then hurried on.

They came out from the houses and into the fields beside the river.

“Ima…” Miriam whispered, grabbing her ima’s robe. The bad people put the babies in the water. This wasn’t a safe place. This was where all the bad things happened and made all the other mothers cry and scream in the night.

The lady was still walking a long way ahead, but she stopped as if she heard Miriam’s voice. She turned, standing in the sticky mud, and looked back at them. The light wasn’t just from her hand anymore. The shadows weren’t just shadows anymore.

Miriam clung to her ima, trembling. “Don’t go with her, ima.”

“We must, Miriam,” Ima said. “She _will_ protect him.”

They followed. Miriam didn’t let go of her ima’s robe. The mud was cold and squishy and wet between her toes and the river was dark and shiny. The lady was standing by the water’s edge, stars all over her. Miriam stared hard. She could see _through_ her, like she wasn’t even there at all.

“What shall we do?” Miriam’s ima asked, still whispering even though there was no one else to hear.

The lady looked back at her. “Say your farewells, daughter of Levi,” she said softly, “but it will not be a long parting.”

Miriam stepped back as her ima knelt down and opened the basket. Her brother was in there, but whatever Ima had to say was for him. She hugged her skinny arms around her middle, cold and shaky and sad.

“It’s all right,” the lady said softly, coming over to her. She crouched down close beside her. “I won’t let anyone hurt him.”

Miriam stared at her, then hesitantly reached out and pulled on a long curl of shiny red hair that had sneaked out from under the lady’s veil. It was warm and soft and the lady laughed.

“I can see through you,” Miriam said, staring at the curl in her hand. “But I can touch you.”

“You can,” the lady agreed and behind her, big black wings like an ibis shifted. Miriam could hear the rustle of the feathers. She lifted her hand and took Miriam’s. “And I have a very important job for you to do.”

“Me?”

The lady nodded. “I’m going to take your brother somewhere safe. We will go through the river, but you must follow along on the bank.”

“Why?”

She leaned closer and whispered to Miriam. “I think your mother would be happy to know he’s safe, wouldn’t she?” Miriam nodded. “So you can watch and make sure of it for her.” She squeezed Miriam’s hand gently. “And you can see he’s safe too.”

Miriam nodded, relieved.

The lady gave her a big smile, then stood up again. “It’s time, Jochebed.”

Ima was crying as she laid the baby back in the basket and put the lid onto it.

The lady walked down into the shiny black waters and didn’t even make a sound. She turned there and held up her hands for the basket. “I’ll protect him,” she said, lowering the basket onto the water. “I promise you.”

Ima reached down to hold Miriam’s shoulder. Her fingers pinched hard. “I know.”

The lady pulled her veil close around her face and walked out into the water, until there was nothing left but the ripples.

“I have to follow, Ima,” Miriam said, looking up. “She said I have to follow.”

Ima nodded, letting her go, and Miriam ran as fast as she could. The rushes and reeds swiped at her legs and the mud squelched under her feet, but she followed the dark swirls and ripples and as the sun crept up the world turned shiny and gold, she could see the basket slipping and sliding down the river and even though she couldn’t see the lady, Miriam _knew_ she was still there.

Her feet were hurting and she was very tired when the basket finally swirled up towards the shore. There was a big house, much bigger than the mud-brick houses of Goshen, with white stone and tall sticks of stone holding up a high, high roof.

An Egyptian woman was sitting on steps beside the water and her friends were helping her to get washed, pouring water on her from pots. One of them saw the basket and screamed, but the sitting woman looked, then splashed down into the water towards it.

When she opened it, she smiled and Miriam’s heart went a little bit faster as she picked the baby up and cuddled Miriam’s brother. He was hungry and crying quietly. It had been a long long ride in the basket.

“Do we have a wet nurse?” the woman said, turning to her friends. “He’s hungry.”

At once, Miriam understood why she was meant to be there and she ran, splashing all the way, towards the woman. “I know someone who can help you!” she cried out. “There’s a lady I know who had a baby, but she doesn’t have one anymore and she… she can give you milk!”

The Egyptian’s eyes were bright and happy. “Wonderful! Can you bring her to me?”

Miriam nodded, sore feet and tired almost forgotten. “I can! I’ll be as quick as I can be!” She splashed back off through the water and in the bulrushes, she saw their friend with the dark veil. Miriam hurried to her, beaming. “You said he would be safe!”

“I did,” the lady said, crouching down. “Do you think you can fetch your ima?”

Miriam nodded, then threw herself forward to hug the lady. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for looking after my brother.”

The lady was very still for a minute, then very carefully hugged her. “You’re welcome, little one.” She pushed Miriam back a step then bowed her head and kissed Miriam on the forehead and it was like all of the tired and sore and hungry vanished into nothing. “Now run! Run as fast as you can!”

Miriam laughed and threw herself onwards. When she looked back, the lady covered in starlight had vanished.


	11. 1118BC - Zorah, Israel - Blessed

Flour whispered between the stones of the grindstone.

Hazelelponi hummed as she drew it round and round, pouring fresh handfuls of grain every so often. It was a warm day beyond the walls of the house and quiet. Manoah had business to see to and would not return until nightfall.

“Hazelelponi.”

The voice that spoke her name made her lift her head, startled. There was no one else in the house, no one but her, and yet the voice reached her as if someone was kneeling before her. “Who’s there?”

The air rippled and Hazelelponi’s heart quailed as a– as something that looked like a man stepped out of nothing to stand before her. His eyes burned like embers, his hair a red torrent like blood, and wings spread around him like shadows.

Grains tumbled from her shaking hands and she flung herself facedown on the floor.

The man’s clothing whispered as he knelt and his hands were warm and real and gentle on her shoulders. “Don’t be afraid, daughter of Etam,” he said. “I come with glad news.”

She dared to look up into that shining face and those burning eyes. “News?” she echoed, trembling.

He lowered one hand and pressed it to her belly. “Yes. Your prayers have been heard.”

The fear melted away like the morning dew and she caught his hand, holding it there. Barren, she had believed. She had been so sure. For so many years, they had prayed and hoped, and now…

“A child?”

The… messenger nodded and his smile drove the last vestiges of dread. “A son.”

The tears were spilling down her face and she laughed. “A son!” She clasped his hand between hers. So thin and human, it seemed, all bones and calluses. “Thank you. _Thank you_.”

“He will be the one to break the yoke of Philistia,” the messenger said. He squeezed her fingers. “I bring you instructions and you need to remember them.” She nodded at once and he smiled, relieved. “Your son, he must be a Nazirite.”

Hazelelponi stared at him. A holy man. But yes, of course. Of course he would be holy. He had been granted to them by the Almighty. “What must I do?” she asked.

The instructions were simple. Alcohol was to be foresworn and the child, when he came, would follow the vows of the Nazirites, his hair unclipped, his beard – when it came – unshaven, and his body unsullied by mortal indulgences. She too would need to follow such rules in readiness for his coming.

“It may not be an easy life,” the messenger warned her, “but your son will be strong and brave.”

“He will be my child,” Hazelelponi said, wiping her cheeks with her hands. “That will be enough.”

The smile that crossed the messenger’s face was so bright and beautiful that her tears fell anew and she hid her face in her hands. The messenger brushed a hand over the back of her head, a gentle and comforting touch.

“Bless you,” he said softly, leaning forward and pressing his lips to her brow.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

________________________________

Manoah fidgeted.

He believed in the teachings of his forefathers. Of course he did. But he was not the kind of man who was given a holy charge. Men such as him did not find their wives laughing and weeping and declaring they were visited by messengers of the Almighty.

For days, he had prayed that this… messenger would return. If it was all true, then they needed all the help the Almighty cared to provide. If there was a son and he was to be dedicated to the ways of a holy man, then it would be best to know as much as possible.

If it was all true.

Hazelelponi had been so desperate to conceive for so long, he almost feared that her grief and despair had overcome her.

He shifted his weight again, the stone grinding against his knees. Years ago, it wouldn’t have bothered him, but age was creeping in, stiffening his limbs and threading grey through his hair and his beard.

“Hello.”

Manoah wanted to think that – when faced with a messenger for the Almighty – he would remain calm and collected, not turn into a sobbing, laughing mess like his wife. He had imagined what would happen if said messenger appeared.

At least there was no one else around to see him tip flat on his back, scrabbling away across the floor, yelping like a startled dog.

The black wings folded inwards around the flaming figure of something that wasn’t a man. Hair of blood, he remembered, eyes of fire, robes and wings as dark as shadow. Manoah gave a weak wail of terror, shielding his face with his hands.

The sound of warm, genuine laughter made him peer cautiously between his fingers.

The angel looked down at him, amused. “I thought you were expecting me. You asked, after all.”

“Y-you’re here.”

The angel glanced down at himself, then grinned. “Apparently so.” He gave a little wave of his hand. “Hello.”

Manoah opened and shut his mouth, trying to think of words. Words were good.

But his words were gone and all he knew was that his wife was with child and they had been blessed and they would have a son and–

“You all right?” The angel was right in front of him, crouching down. “You look a little bit shaken.”

Manoah nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

The angel made a face. “None of that. I’m not your Lord.”

No, no of course no. “But– what is your name, then?”

The angel rocked back on his heels. “Why do you want my name?” He shook his head. “It’s not for the ears of men.”

Manoah nodded. Rude to ask, impertinent, demanding the name of holy beings who had blessed him and granted him a lineage and a child. “I will make a sacrifice for you!” he croaked, staggering to his feet.

The messenger blinked up at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I must!” Manoah stumbled out into the precincts of the temple.

By the brightness of day it seemed like it had all been a trick of his imagination and he turned to look back at the door. The angel was standing there, bright and radiant as a living flame. Manoah’s heart thundered and he backed away, bowing.

“Look, you don’t really have to do this,” the angel said, trotting after him. “Honestly. I mean, if you’re going to do anything, you should make it to…” He pointed upwards. “I’m nothing important.”

Wings of shadow, hair of blood, eyes of fire…

Manoah fled before him, seeking one of the shepherds. With hands still shaking, he counted out coins, then led the ram back towards the temple to be sacrificed. He saw the angel waiting by the entrance as he neared. He was sitting on the steps like a child and unfurled from them like a nightmare.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake! Stop that!”

Manoah shook his head. “A sacrifice of thanks must be made,” he insisted. “I need to thank you.”

“Not me!” The messenger hurried after him. “Definitely not me! Seriously frowned on, that!”

Manoah knew the traditions and the customs. The ram was slaughtered and laid out in readiness and the messenger was still flurrying about, wings out, unseen by any but Manoah.

“For the love of _Her_, will you just _listen_ to me, you idiot!” He snatched Manoah’s staff from his hand. “You _can’t_ sacrifice anything to me!”

“You brought us a great gift!” Manoah protested, grabbing the staff back.

“Not me!” The angel wrenched it away from him. “You know who!” And he brought the staff down hard on the altar.

Flames burst out in all directions, the blaze of heat and power throwing everyone about the courtyard to the ground. The inferno roared upwards, consuming the ram and boiling towards the Heavens in a pillar of flame.

“Er…” the angel said. “Whoops.”

Manoah tore his eyes from the column of fire, a small act of the one he had tried to defy.

He gave a scream and turned and ran for his life.

____________________________

“You can’t stay there forever,” Hazelelponi said with a sigh.

“It would be better for everyone if I do,” Manoah said, hunkering further into the corner. He’d been cowering there for hours, clinging to his scorched staff as if it were a weapon. “I have looked upon the face of the Almighty. I am doomed.”

Hazelelponi rubbed at her eyes with one hand, then exhaled. “Very well.” She retreated from the room and into the main room of the house.

A pair of amber eyes that should not have looked so worried met hers. “He still won’t come out?”

“He believes he saw the face of…” She trailed off with a significant glance upwards. “You’re… not, are you?”

The angel stared at her with such human astonishment that she almost laughed. “Me? No! No, not at all! I’m just…” He waved a hand at himself. Comprehension flooded his face. “Oh! He thinks I’m going to smite him?”

She nodded with a wince. “Forgive him. We are… simple people. He never thought we were the kind to be blessed like this.”

“Believe me,” the angel said, “no one ever does.” He ran a hand over his face. “He won’t believe me if I go in there…” He frowned, humming. “Tell him… ask him if I – or _They_ – wanted him dead, why would we have given you both the knowledge to raise this child.”

Hazelelponi hid a smile behind her hand. “That is all?”

“It’s nothing more than the truth,” the angel said. He gave her a small smile in return. “He doesn’t need to know that I don’t like smiting people.”

No, she thought, you wouldn’t. Seeing him so worried and nervous by the warm light of day, it was hard to believe she had been so afraid of one so gentle. Hair of flame, eyes of honey, and wings as soft and silent as starlight.

“Tell him,” he urged, flapping a hand towards the doorway.

It took a little more than the angel’s words, but finally, happily, her husband came back into the main room of the house with her. The angel had gone, leaving nothing behind but the feeling of his good will and the happy news. The fear was leaving Manoah – as it had her – and his smile was almost as wide and joyful as the angel’s.

“A son!” he crowed, pulling her to him and pressing a hand to her belly. “We will have a son!”

A blessed son, she thought happily, a child with an angel to watch over him.

_____________________________________

The night was still and quiet.

Manoah could not say what roused him.

The lamp was burning low, the room hazy and gold, and a figure knelt on the floor close to Hazelelponi’s side of the bed. Even in the quiet dark, the angel shone, dark eyes were fixed on the child only days old.

Manoah watched the messenger in silence as he reached out a fingertip and touched a tiny knuckle. The baby should have been swaddled, but he fought against any bonds, even those of a babe, and now, those small fingers clutched the hand of an angel.

“His name is Samson,” Manoah murmured.

“A good name,” the angel whispered. “A strong name.” Those dark golden eyes rose to Manoah’s face. “You will need guidance in his upbringing. You asked for it once.”

“I did.”

“May I offer it now?”

Manoah nodded at once. “Teach us,” he said softly. “Teach us to teach him.”

The smile that lit the angel’s face was as brilliant as starlight in the night. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone had any doubts as to Crowley's role with a certain prophet :) Read this one and then the next chapter in the chronology, I dare you.


	12. 1079BC - Commendable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompt #4 - Summon
> 
> **Note**: This scene is pretty dark and includes violence, bloodshed and death. Just so you're aware.

Crowley fidgeted with the belt of his tunic. It was a long strip of woven leather, a little indulgence bought from the hands of a craftsman in Canaan. It had a scale-like texture. There was something oddly comforting about running his thumb along it.

He gazed up at the Throne.

It was still empty. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen it occupied.

“Ah! Raziel! Good to see you!”

That almost sounded positive.

Forcing a smile, Crowley turned, bowing his head respectfully. “Gabriel.” His eyes flicked sideways. Michael was standing just behind the Archangel, hands placidly folded. “Michael.” He swallowed hard, fingers tightening on his belt. “I– you summoned me?”

Gabriel beamed at him. “Yes!” He clapped his hands together. “A smiting! Who knew you had it in you?”

Ah.

Crowley’s smile wavered. “Oh. That.”

“Samson was one of your… special projects, wasn’t he?” Michael murmured.

He had his moments, Crowley thought unhappily. There was a lot of blood involved, but then, that seemed to be a rule when it came to anyone of importance. “I had a few blessings allocated for him, yes.”

More than a few, in fact. The man had been a legend in his own lifetime.

And yet, the last time Crowley had seen him, he was chained and blinded, tortured and helpless after the betrayal of one he loved. Crowley had been so _angry_. Not… entirely on Samson’s behalf, but because they were laughing at him, mocking and hurting him for _pleasure_. The cruelty of it all had been like a spark to dry kindling. He had been smothered by the memory of cold waves, a blade at his chest, his work and life ripped apart in front of him by people who should have been his allies.

So he had laid his hands on Samson’s trembling, blood-smeared shoulders, threading his fingers through the long and matted hair, and closed his eyes, imbuing the man with his legendary might once more.

The man had sobbed, his faith burning hot and bright. “Thank you, thank you…”

And Crowley had stood at his back, holding him steady, watching as the man _pushed_ and the walls trembled and crashed down and mocking laughter turned to screams. In the chaos and carnage, the angel had spread his wings and shielded Samson, and as the screams turned to silence…

Lord, what had he done?

“–and even Sandalphon was impressed, though I don’t think he’d thank me for telling you,” Gabriel said enthusiastically. “All those people struck down with a single well-placed miracle!”

“It– it was nothing,” Crowley said, mouth dry.

“Ha! Hardly!” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe the surge in faith among his people! It was remarkable! Especially when they found him undamaged in the rubble.”

Undamaged, Crowley thought blankly. Eyes burned out, body battered and torn and exhausted to the point of death. He had held the man as he died, his chains snapped away. He had watched the blood frothing on Samson’s lips and offered what mercy and peace he could. 

“I’m glad you’re glad,” he said automatically. It had become habit. Accept what criticism or praise they lodged, retreat from Heaven’s chilly halls, and return to earth to lose himself in the work. And pray, for once, the nightmares wouldn’t come.

“Glad!” Gabriel turned to Michael. “Glad, he says! Lined up for a commendation and he’s glad we’re glad!”

“A commendation?” Crowley’s legs wobbled under him.

“For exceptional performance.” Gabriel nodded. “I mean, you understand why we can’t do it formally, what with….” He winced and mimed unrolling a scroll. “There are a few people around here who might think it inappropriate.” He pressed his hands together and opened them again. A medallion glittered in his palm in the shape of spread wings. “Congratulations, Raziel.”

The metal was cold and hard in Crowley’s hand and he stared at it blankly. “I can’t accept this.”

“Nonsense!” Gabriel gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You caused a big enough spike in faith to earn it!”

Spike in faith.

When he’d walked out of Dagon’s temple, he had stepped over the bodies of young and old alike. His sandals were still black with dried blood.

Spike. In faith.

“Thank you,” he said numbly. “I will be sure to treat it with all the respect and gratitude it deserves.”

He couldn’t remember walking out of Heaven. He couldn’t remember the descent back to earth or alighting on a beach in a deserted strip of coastline. He couldn’t remember much beyond the burning ache in his palm as he sank to sit on a rock by the water’s edge. He opened his trembling fingers and his palm was bloody where the wings had cut into his skin.

A commendation.

The curls of the waves purred across the shingle of the beach and he took a breath before sinking his feet into the cold, white foam. A reminder. Cold and biting and painful. Blood on his skin. He was _meant_ to cherish them and he had– he hadn’t stopped to think or hesitated or even cared in that moment.

It wasn’t just letting them die. Mortals lived and died. That was how it worked. What they did to each other, what they chose to do was… it was different. This was different.

He had caused their deaths. He had put in place the pieces that brought down the temple. Deliberately. He knew what Samson could do and had ensured he would be capable of doing it all because of–

Another icy torrent coiled around his legs, dragging at his robe.

He stared at the bloodied wings in his hand, then drew back his arm and hurled it as far as he could into the frothing waves.

“Don’t give it back,” he pleaded, raising his eyes to the Heavens. “Don’t. I don’t want it.” His eyes burned and he wrapped his arms over his middle. “I don’t want it.”

The tide rolled in, cold and deep, and his robe was stained with salt.


	13. 1024BC - The Valley of Elah - Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 25 - Sabotage**

Despite everything, Crowley couldn’t help feeling nervous.

He was dividing his time between sitting on a boulder and rising and pacing around said same boulder. The armies were massing on both sides of the valley, the roar of their support for their champions deafening.

He finally sat back down as the nimble figure of a young man emerged from the Israelite ranks. The lad looked far calmer than Crowley felt now. They’d talked earlier in the day, by the stream, as the boy dipped his hand into the water to find some stones.

“It can’t be enough,” the boy had said, frowning. “Maybe if I take a few…”

“One will be more than enough,” Crowley assured him, closing his hands over the boy’s, his hand as warm as the lad’s was wet and cold. The blessing passed like a silent prayer along with his smile. “You’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t… nervousness, really. Not when he knew the boy was as blessed as he was, but he’d felt the ripple of the Other Side on the battlefield too. Nothing was certain when both forces were present. Humans cast the deciding vote. Or, if all went well, the deciding rock.

“Ah.”

Crowley winced in recognition. Of all the demons who threatened to stymie his plans, he always seemed to run into the same one. He twisted on the rock, squinting up. The fair-haired demon was picking his way down from the rocky outcrop behind him, smiling in greeting.

“Thought one of your lot might be hanging around,” the demon said cheerfully. “Heard something about God’s anointed hiding out in his tent like a chicken.”

Crowley made a face at him. “The King has his reasons for avoiding combat.”

“Mm-hm.” The demon plopped himself down beside Crowley. “Those reasons being self-preservation, cowardice and/or a distinct lack of military skill?”

Crowley ignored him, pointedly turning his attention back to the battlefield and the two combatants who were facing one another across the churned up ground. They were calling out to one another, no doubt the usual posturing and declamations.

“That’s your best, is it?” The demon sniffed disdainfully. “My lad’ll be scraping him off his sandal in five minutes flat.”

“Oh?”

The demon waved expansively to the vast man Crowley’s boy was facing. “I mean, have you seen him? He could probably just step on your fellow like an ant.” He leaned forward, peering at the two. “Did they pick the only pre-pubescent they could find? I thought your lot didn’t go in for child sacrifices anymore?”

Crowley tried very hard not to rise to the bait, but he was making it very difficult. “You sound very confident in your man’s abilities.”

The demon shrugged expressively. “He kills things. It’s all he’s good at.” He paused, considering it. “That and the flute. I’ve never seen anyone twiddle out a tune quite like him.”

“Mine is a shepherd,” Crowley said. “Good on the harp.”

“Shame he won’t have a chance to get better.”

Crowley hid a small smile. “Mm.”

On the battlefield, the exchange of words had apparently finished. The rumble of their armies, shouting support and insults in turn, roared like thunder. And the young lad slipped his hand into the pouch at his belt, withdrawing the single blessed stone.

Beside Crowley, the demon shifted, sitting up suspiciously. “Hang on…”

Crowley fought the grin that was spreading across his face as the boy whirled his sling round, round, round and released. It was a _beautiful_ shot, cracking the Philistine right between the eyes. He staggered and then his huge length went down like an oak tree, not even folding at the knees.

“Hey!” The demon turned on Crowley accusingly. “That’s– you _blessed_ the little bastard!”

“No I didn’t,” Crowley said virtuously, as the boy sprinted across the field and snatched up the giant’s sword. It was almost the length of his body, but he wrestled it from the sheath and with two clumsy cuts and a spurt of bright red in the morning light, he was the victor. “I blessed a rock. Can’t say I did anything more than bless a rock.”

“That’s _sabotage_!”

Crowley turned a wide-eyed look on him. “I only blessed a pebble. Not my fault your flautist didn’t think to put his helmet on.”

The demon gaped at him, opening and shutting his mouth in indignation. “Oh, _you_…” He harrumphed indignantly. “Still counts as cheating.” He grumbled under his breath. “Only blessed a pebble… for Satan’s sake…”

“Funny thing about shepherds,” Crowley added. “They deal with wild, fast-moving animals a lot. Wolves. Bears. That kind of thing. Your bloke, that big and standing still… not exactly a tricky target, was he?”

The demon eyed him suspiciously.

Crowley offered him his most angelic smile. “Was he your only one on that side?”

The demon sunk into his ornate robes huffily. “No. Why?”

“Because,” Crowley said, helpful generosity personified, as he pointed towards the battlefield. “Your side are sort of… legging it. A bit.”

The demon whipped around, then groaned. “Oh Hell…” He pushed himself back to his feet and dusted down his robes. “Bloody angels and their bloody semantic loopholes.”

Crowley folded his hands modestly in his lap and raised his eyes to the demon. “Better luck next time?” he said, trying very hard not to smirk.

The demon gawped at him. “Oh shut up,” he snorted, but he was smiling as he turned and stamped off in the direction of his retreating army.

Crowley ducked his head, grinning. A wile well-thwarted, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (David and Goliath, in case anyone isn't familiar with the story :))


	14. 326BC - Hydaspes – Touched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a far later chapter, it's mentioned that Aziraphale spent time with Alexander the Great, so I wanted to go back to that time :)

An angel walked unseen through the battlefield.

Bodies – living and dead – still littered the ground. Where he could, he offered a blessing, a healing, sometimes a little of both. Didn’t matter which side they fought for. Faith was the important thing and a lot of these men _believed_.

Crowley paused on the way to the riverbank, a familiar sense tugging at him.

Like a fish hooked on a line he followed it, alarm rising at the sight of a familiar tuft of fair hair poking out of a tangle of fallen soldiers. “Oh no…” He scrambled up and over, rolling bodies aside, until he uncovered the demon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake… Aziraphale…”

The demon seemed to be unconscious, which wasn’t really surprising given the bloody great lump on his head and the arrows that peppered his armour.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Crowley demanded in a whisper, crouching down beside him. He pressed a hand to Aziraphale’s chest, feeling for the flutter of life. Still here. Badly knocked about, but still somewhere in the messy corporation.

The angel chewed his lip, testing each of the arrows. All but one were lodged in the armour and hadn’t reached skin, so he ripped them out. The last one had penetrated skin and he glanced around before spreading his hand around the shaft, drawing something like – but not quite – a miracle.

With a tug, the arrow came free and power flowed in, knitting the tissue before blood could flood the corporation’s lungs and finish the job.

Discorporation was a nasty business and Crowley had the sneaking suspicion Hell’s approach was probably as bad as, if not worse, than Heaven’s. So what if Aziraphale was a demon? Wasn’t that punishment enough? Why punish him even more for something for a bloody and painful corporation death as well?

Aziraphale groaned heavily and Crowley hastily flicked at his head, sending him back into unconsciousness.

Pulling an old trick out of thin air under the guise of a miracle was a bad idea at the best of times, but having a demon realise it was worse. And if Aziraphale was half as bright as he seemed, if he realised his wound had healed in the presence of an angel, he would put two and two together about the source of power and…

Crowley shuddered.

No, Aziraphale definitely didn’t need to know Raziel of the Book had been poking at him.

Better for him to think the humans did all the work.

With no effort at all, he slid his arms under the demon’s body and hoisted him up, carrying him unsteadily back in the direction of the camp and the people with bandages and medicine and who knew what to do with a human corporation with injuries.

They didn’t pay any attention to him – he made sure of that – as he carried Aziraphale to a low cot and laid him down. The demon didn’t even stir, his face a mask of blood from the lump on his brow. Crowley hesitated, then gently touched it, closing his eyes and searching with his senses.

No breaks. Some bleeding. Probably a concussion. Nothing terminal, not like the arrow in his lung.

“Be more careful next time,” he said softly. “Daft demon.”

He got up, winding his way between the beds to one of the physicians. It was easier to guide their attention to the patient than to speak. Better not to voice anything aloud in case anyone was paying too much attention.

The man turned, as if seeing Aziraphale for the first time, and cried out to his assistants, all of them flurrying towards the cot and the unconscious demon.

Crowley slipped from the tent and back into the bustle of the camp, approaching one of the campfires that were burning. Macedonian soldiers sat in exhausted huddles, victorious but spent, their leader nowhere to be seen. He glanced back at the tent, then hurried on. Probably best to get as far away as possible before anyone realised he had even been there.

_______________________________

Aziraphale woke – which was new in and of itself – with an absolute bastard of a headache. Second point of fact: he was apparently inside what appeared to be a tent and not on a battlefield, which was unexpected.

He could remember the arrows and surprise and pain and lifting his head to see a wooden club swinging at him, but beyond that…

He sat up, wincing, peering down at himself. His armour had been stripped off, leaving him pale and pink in the dull lamplight. A hospital tent? Well, that was a good sign. Someone must’ve spotted him doing a reasonable impression of a hedgehog and patched him up.

Wait.

He frowned at his chest, exploring it with cautious fingers.

He’d felt the arrow strike. There had been blood in his breath. In all honesty, he had expected to find himself back in Hell, in a queue to get a fresh corporation. It was a bit of a nightmare by all accounts, but it seemed he must have been…

No. There. A shallow dent of fresh tissue. There was a tickle of power to it, something not quite divine, but certainly not Hellish.

How very odd.

One of the physician’s aides noticed him and dashed over to check on him. “Your head is wounded,” the boy insisted, pushing him back. “You need to heal.”

Aziraphale caught his arm. “The arrow in my chest. Who took it out?”

The boy’s dark eyes creased in confusion. “There was no arrow. Only your head was wounded.” He patted Aziraphale’s arm. “You must be confused.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, subsiding on the bed and fingering the healed pocket of flesh. “Confused. I certainly am.”


	15. 165BC - Jerusalem - Light

165BC – Light

Night had fallen and the sanctuary was quiet at last.

Crowley crept through the quiet temple. There were guards posted, defending against any reprisals, but none of them noticed him as he made his way across the courtyard, a sylph of a shadow in the light of the half-moon.

They had been so busy, he thought wonderingly, as he gazed around.

For days, from sunrise to sunset, the humans had been working on restoring the building to its former glory, tearing up bushes and weeds that had sprung up in the neglected grounds. Stones had been scrubbed until they gleamed, wild dogs driven out and the mess they left behind swept out and washed away.

The defiled altar had been taken apart, stone by stone, and carried away until someone with greater authority could decide its fate. A new altar was half-built, the stones so sharply cut that they fit together perfectly, almost ready for sacrifices again.

Even from where he was standing, he could see where new rods had been fitted above the doorway to the Kodesh Hakodashim, awaiting the curtains that – he had heard – were being crafted by the Levite women.

And at the south end of the sanctuary, he saw the warm, flickering gold of lamplight.

Crowley’s breath hitched, his hand coming to his mouth. They had relit the lamps. Not even finished their work and they knew what they needed to do. He gathered up his robes and ran the length of the courtyard, his heart leaping at the sight of the altar of incense and the… the bread! They made a new bread table!

It was stupid to get so emotional about it, but he’d watched – hidden – in the temple as the Seleucids had done… well… what occupying rulers had done since humans had decided that invasion and systematic oppression were interesting pass times.

He approached, tracing his fingertips along the polished wood of the table. Brand new and – he couldn’t help smiling – still built to the old specifications. He’d always been delighted that there were other people who saw the importance of writing the Almighty’s specific instructions down and sticking to them.

And, of course, the lampstand.

Their smiths must have worked night and day to finish it, the metalwork beautiful. The branches curved upwards around the central column and in the middle, a single lamp was burning, the scent of olive oil a haze in the air. Crowley frowned, rising on his toes to peer into the bowl.

There wasn’t much oil left in it, definitely not enough to last until morning. After all their work, it’d be awful if it went out now.

And wasn’t there a supply of the stuff? He’d found a few sealed jars in a room in the lower parts of the temple. Okay, yeah, he’d borrowed a few of them. It was cold at night and no one else was using them. There was something comforting about the smell and the warmth, reminding him of the holy places and the quiet.

Oh.

Wait.

There had been one jar left, last time he looked. One sealed and priest-approved and conveniently just about the right size to fill a single lamp. One, he had a sneaking suspicion, that would definitely not be there anymore.

Crowley bit his tongue to stifle a profanity.

They’d got their temple back and had almost finished all the resanctification and their plans would be scuppered because some arsehole of an angel nicked their oil. No. No, couldn’t let that happen. Not on his watch.

He glanced about, then upwards, and snapped his fingers.

The oil welled up again, refilling the bowl and the lamp burned more brightly than before.

That’d do them, he thought, relieved. It’d get them through the night and most of the way through the next day. Surely, they’d have sent someone to fetch some more oil. Surely. Why light the lamps if you ran the risk of them going out?

Crowley chewed his lip, frowning at the menorah.

Wouldn’t do any harm to check in the next day, would it? Just to be sure. Couldn’t do any harm, could it?

Seven days later, the new oil finally arrived.

The very next day, Crowley hastily left Jerusalem, pretending he had nothing to do with any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Christmas is drowning everything, I thought I would take another look at a different winter holiday.


	16. 33AD - Outside Jerusalem - Shattered

The garden was quiet, still a few minutes of darkness clinging to the horizon before dawn came.

Crowley shifted her weight on the boulder she was sitting on, her bare feet resting on the crackling leaves and fallen strips of bark. The scent of dew on the nearby plants was a comforting balm, especially when she looked across the garden at the tomb she was guarding.

Watch it, she’d been told. Make sure nothing is disturbed.

There was something about the boy – the man – who had died, but she wasn’t important enough to be told the specifics. Stand by and watch. That had been her life for the last thirty-odd years. Stand by and watch.

Stand by and watch as a child slips into the Synagogue and baffles and dazes the best and brightest minds of Rabbis with his questions and his answers. Stand by and watch as he resists day after day after day of temptation, never getting close enough to help or see how he does it. Stand by and watch as he teaches all the ways to turn the other cheek, weaponising a passive demeanour and using it against your enemies. Stand by and watch as he takes up a whip – crafted with all Eve’s skill and his own two hands – and beats the people who manipulate and cajole and trick and shame the faithful. Stand by and watch as he gathers the little children to him and smiles because _he understands_.

Stand by and watch as the skin is flayed from his body, tears and blood and sweat streaming down his trembling limbs.

Stand by and watch as they drive the nails through his wrists and his heels.

Stand by and…

_Why have you forsaken me? _

The words were still ringing in her ears, days later, the desperate sobbed cries of a man who has done all that has been asked of him and more, as he hung, bleeding, in agony, dying.

She had stood there, at the side of a demon, wishing and praying for some whisper from above, telling her now, now was the time to stop watching, now was the time to step forward and lift him down and bless him as he surely deserved to be blessed.

But no. Another order.

Stand by and watch his tomb until the time is right.

She shivered at a change in the air.

“Raziel.”

Crowley jumped, scrambling off the rock and hastily shoving her feet back into her sandals. “Gabriel! I didn’t know it would be you coming!”

The Archangel raised his eyebrows. “Who else was it going to be?”

True. He had been there when the birth was foretold and when the baby who became the man was born, leading the Heavenly choirs.

Crowley smiled tentatively. “So you were there for the beginning and you’ll be there for the end of his life? I didn’t realise he was so important for you.”

The moment she said it, the moment Gabriel’s expression changed, she realised how wrong she was.

“He’s a _human_, Raziel. I’m here because this is the Plan.”

The Plan.

Of course. It was only and always the damned Plan.

She twisted her hands together inside the flowing sleeves of her abaya. “What happens now, then? I mean, if it’s not important, I could–”

“Oh, please,” Gabriel said with a dismissive wave of his hands. “The humans need a light show, a bit of razzle dazzle, a nice holy bow on the end of the story.” He snorted. “It’s amazing what boosts their faith these days.”

Boosts… their faith.

Crowley stared blankly at him.

She remembered another small child, plump-cheeked and laughing. Bless him, she was told. So she did. Guide him, she was told, so she did. Watch him, she was told, so she did. And when he needed her most…

And much later, Crowley had stood, fingers sunk into tangled hair, and brought a temple down on the ones who had beaten and tortured and hurt him and all… all it did was boost the faith of the few. Hardly anyone remembered the chubby little boy with his tumbling dark curls and his wide eyes and his dimples.

“That’s what this is about?” she said, feeling cold down to her bones.

“Of course!” Gabriel flashed that perfect smile at her. “Isn’t that what it’s always about?”

_Why have you forsaken me? _

“I…” She stared at him. “I watched him. I thought– isn’t there– this is what he was raised for? To _die_? That’s all?” 

“As all mortals do,” Gabriel said. He patted her on the shoulder. “Great job, by the way. Making sure he stayed up there until the job was done. Making sure no one interfered. We really needed everyone to see it.”

Crowley’s body felt as if it was turning to clay, cold and numb and hollow. “I thought–” she began, then fell silent. Thought what? That the prophecies might be true? That for once, there could possibly, maybe, be a happy ending for the person who asked all the questions and who did the right thing, even when there was a risk? That maybe, somehow, they would get one last miracle?

Gabriel turned suddenly at a sound further up the garden. “Quick!” he said, flapping his hand to shoo her away. “They’re coming.” He unfurled his silvery wings in the pre-dawn light. “Don’t want to give them too many angels, do we?”

No, she thought, heart sinking like a rock as she stumbled away between the trees. Maybe it’s better if we don’t give them any at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder what was the tipping point for Crowley? WONDER NO MORE :D


	17. 41AD - Coda - Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene follows on immediately after [Chapter 4 - 41AD - Rome](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097493/chapters/47636029) of Inverse Proper.

The angel had a room in one of the poorer quarters of the city – of course he bloody did – and Aziraphale kept a steadying hand under Crowley’s arm as he tottered along the filthy streets. He’d stopped babbling, all of his concentration going into putting one foot in front of the other.

The fact he was still upright was impressive, but that wasn’t what kept stealing Aziraphale’s attention.

Even when drunk, even when oblivious to the very clear need on all sides, the angel’s presence did… _something_. It was difficult to put a finger on what it was, but small children smiled, snarling dogs perked up their ears and wagged their tails and the shady bastards lurking about suddenly had better things to be doing.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, worried. If the angel was accidentally throwing miracles around, Heaven would be certain to notice and they were very strict about their quotas.

Honey-brown eyes peered at him. “Why?”

“Should you be doing miracling now?”

Crowley blew a raspberry. “Not doing miracles,” he said, patting along his belt. “Going to bed.” He squinted around and beamed. “Ah! There! My room!”

The place was a dump. Aziraphale stared at it, then back at him.

“You’re not staying here.”

“Am.” Crowley stepped away and bowed his head politely, then tipped forward and Aziraphale caught him before they knocked heads. “Ohhhh…”

“I’m getting you all the way to bed, idiot,” the demon said sternly. “Otherwise, you’ll end up snoring in the street.”

The god damned angel’s smile was radiant as sunlight. “Told you,” he said happily, leaning into Aziraphale’s hands. “Nice.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “Shut up, would you? I don’t need the whole world to know.” He studied the angel, then bent at the knees and hoisted the yelping angel over his shoulder.

Crowley grabbed at Aziraphale’s belt, kicking his feet. “Pumme down!”

“Once you’re on your bed,” Aziraphale retorted, stalking into the building. A young lad gave them a wary look, so the demon swung round – ‘grooo…’ went the upside-down angel – and the boy snickered and pointed across the grubby courtyard to a door.

The room was as miserable as the building itself, the walls damp-stained and bare, and only the most basic of beds standing against a wall. Aziraphale stared around in distaste.

“This is the best you could do?”

“Don’t need more,” Crowley mumbled. He batted at Aziraphale’s back. “Pumme down?”

The demon glanced at the arse beside his cheek and sigh. A snap of his fingers added some more padding to the hard wooden bed, as well as a few pillows and a decent blanket. “Fine,” he said, prowling over and tipping the angel – with another yelp – onto the bed.

Crowley blinked up at him, a wounded look on his face. “Y’dropped me!”

Aziraphale bent down over him, nose-to-nose. “I put you to bed, my dear,” he purred. “Like I promised. And I could do a lo–”

The angel was hugging him.

Aziraphale blinked at the wall beyond him.

The angel had his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and he was hugging him.

“A-angel?”

Crowley made a small, happy sound and yawned, his breath a heated gust. “M’tired,” he murmured.

“Well… ah… yes…” Aziraphale hesitated, then slipped a hand behind Crowley’s mussed head. “You ought to lie down, my dear.” He bent lower, cradling the angel’s head carefully, to lay him back on the bed, a pillow under his head. “Like that, all right?”

Crowley peered up at him, then loosened one of his arms so he could touch the skin beneath Aziraphale’s eye. “Your eyes are like thunderstorms,” he said with soft solemnity, then yawned again and rolled over onto his side – clearly forgetting that his other arm around the demon’s neck.

One thing that is known but rarely discussed about angels is the fact they are – when the occasion calls for it – very strong indeed.

Abruptly, Aziraphale found himself hauled off his feet, upended, and trapped between a wall and an angel, the angel’s face tucked beside his on his new and very soft cushion.

“Um…”

“Sh,” Crowley murmured, eyes drooping closed. “Sleep time.”

Damn it, angel…

Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s face, so close to his own.

If he just… wriggled a bit to get free…

The angel made a small, sleepy grumble and things got so much worse as _he_ squirmed closer, his arm tightening around Aziraphale’s neck, one leg flung over the demon’s. So much worse, especially when the tip of Crowley’s nose rubbed against Aziraphale’s and he yawned in his sleep, sweet as honey and wine.

“Crowley,” he managed to say, very acutely aware that his own hand not escaped from beneath Crowley’s head and coils of red hair were tangled deliciously around his fingers. “Crowley, I really ought to go.”

The angel gave a small and – oh Lucifer’s hairy arse – adorable snore.

“Angel,” he said, softly though. Wouldn’t do to startle him. “Angel, I _have_ to go.”

All the same, he couldn’t help curling his fingers, feeling those ragged strands of ill-cut hair slipping between them. So ragged. Utterly unflattering. The angel needed better. Gently, gently, gently, he darted sharp touches against the soft curls, clipping away the ragged mess that spoke of very human grief and frustration.

How long he lay there, he didn’t know, but Crowley’s hair was neater and so very soft against his hand and – somehow, though he couldn’t say where or when – his other hand had found its way to rest on the angel’s hip.

It also meant he was still there when Crowley tensed in his sleep, his whole body coiling in on itself and trembling, face creasing with pain and distress. Oh no. No, that would _never_ do.

Aziraphale brought up his hand from Crowley’s hip and gently brushed his thumb across that ugly line carving between his brows. “Hush, my dear, hush,” he murmured. “It’s all right. You’re all right.” He stroked his fingertips lightly down Crowley’s cheek. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the angel relaxed and he curled closer, as if seeking Aziraphale’s warmth, burrowing his face into the demon’s shoulder.

Oh Lord.

Oh, _Hell_.

Shit.

_I shouldn’t stay_.

He could just go, disperse himself, slip away and leave the angel to sleep.

_He’s an _angel_. He would… be angry? Could he be angry? _

It would be easy.

_And it would be cruel, letting him wake up in a demonic embrace. Poor bastard has enough to deal with._

All he had to do was leave.

Crowley’s hair was so soft between his fingers, his breath warm and even on Aziraphale’s throat, and he… wasn’t afraid. Not even a little bit. He was… he trusted… he…

Aziraphale ran a shaking hand down the angel’s back.

“Damn you,” he breathed, shooting a dark look Heavenwards. “_Damn_ you.”


	18. 41AD - Coda Two - Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 9 - Disaster**

It was all wrong.

The prickle of a demonic miracle had woken him, but the heat of another body near his had frozen him before he could move.

Definitely all wrong and bad and if anyone upstairs found out and realised and…

He– they– he wasn’t quite sure how they’d ended up on the bed, or how he had somehow pinned the demon in place, but he apparently had and now, wasn’t good. Big problem. Big dangerous problem. Enemy, right there and-and-and–

The demon’s hand curved around the back of his head.

Ah.

He tried not to shake, tried not to give any sign he was awake, half-expecting the twist of those fingers, the snap of his incorporation’s neck and a very immediate return to head office. Well… four thousand years wasn’t a bad run for keeping a body intact, was it?

Another spark of power brushed his hair.

A strand fell loose.

Crowley’s breath hitched.

What–?

Another, another, unruly messy hair he had hacked to ragged tufts with a knife, fell away.

A… a haircut?

As far as Aziraphale knew, he had a drunk and sleeping angel at his mercy and he chose to give him a haircut?

He shivered as Aziraphale’s other hand moved lightly on his back, but Crowley didn’t dare to open his eyes. It was… he wasn’t meant to be there. Neither of them were meant to be anywhere near each other, but it had been _so_ long since anyone had touched him so gently. If he opened his eyes, Aziraphale would stop and he would be alone and cold and tired again.

So he let himself relax.

Pathetic, really, he thought sadly. Stealing touches from an oblivious demon. How desperate was he that it felt welcoming? And… and the thought came quickly upon the first, how strange that it felt _safe_.

Aziraphale was humming softly as he worked his fingers through Crowley’s hair, a soft, resonant rumble. Strangely soothing, Crowley thought. Could feel it all down to his bones. Nice. Without even thinking, he nestled closer, his heart leaping, but Aziraphale only chuckled and stroked his back again, and continued to hum the same little melody over and over again.

Crowley’s fingers twitched, curling in the layers of Aziraphale’s tunic as the world drifted away.

For once, the nightmares didn’t come and he was woken by the crow of the cock in the courtyard. Warm arms were still around him and Aziraphale’s chest was rising and falling against his. Lord… it– his arm was still locked around Aziraphale’s back, pinning him in place. The poor bugger had been stuck there all night!

And if he admitted he’d been awake, if he gave away the torrid secret that Aziraphale – a _demon_ – felt safe to him, he’d never see him again. Lord knew it was rare enough that he had someone to talk to. Last thing he wanted to do was scare away the only company he’d had in centuries.

It had to be desperation.

Had to be.

With a loud and sleepy grumble, he wriggled around on the bed, releasing Aziraphale from his grip, squirming around until he was face down on the pillows – when did he get pillows? – and his arms were wrapped around them instead.

For several breath-takingly long minutes, Aziraphale didn’t move.

Crowley squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Don’t make it weird, he wanted to scream. Let’s just– this didn’t happen. No one saw anything. No one did anything. You don’t need to be worried about a desperate clingy angel who really _really_ needed some company.

The bed shifted behind him. Aziraphale, he thought, sitting up.

Warm, strong fingers brushed the nape of his neck, sending a jolt of… of God only knew what through him, his heart fluttering.

“Sleep well, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured so softly Crowley barely heard it.

And then he was off the bed and, a moment later, the door closed quietly behind him.

Crowley cracked open one eye to be sure, then lifted his head. He blinked around in the faint morning light. The room had changed. Not much, but it looked… better somehow. A fresh toga was folded on a small stool that definitely hadn’t been there the night before, topped by a small clay bowl of fruit. There… when had the blanket appeared? And when had it been drawn over him?

The angel sat up, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. It was broad and warm and soft.

Aziraphale had done all of it.

Aziraphale had found him, helpless and vulnerable, and had taken care of him. Fed and watered. Tidied him up. Kept him safe and warm.

Crowley trembled despite the warmth of the cloth around him, remembering a rocky crag and salt and shreds of cloth scattered in the water.

A demon was meant to be evil, everything Heaven stood against. _He_ was meant to be _evil_.

Crowley remembered the last time they had crossed paths, the last time they had exchanged words. The man. The cross. The blood. _Be kind_, he had told the demon. The human’s advice, the human’s words. And the demon had–

The angel sank back against the wall, pulling the blanket close around him, his trembling hand to his lips. If Heaven found out about it, he would be in disgrace again, but if Hell found out about the kindness of one of their own, it would be a disaster. Heaven could be cruel. Hell could only be worse.

Better for everyone, he thought, clinging to the blanket, that no one ever knows. Not now, not ever. One night for a kind demon and a desperate angel. That’s all. No more.

Still, days later, when he finally left the city, he carried a small pack on his back, a beautifully-woven blanket folded up neatly inside it.


	19. 66AD - Dumplings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 12 - Dig Your Own Grave**

Aziraphale was a careless demon.

That was not, technically, to say that he was foolhardy and reckless. He would not have lived as long as he had if that was the case. However, he had one rule he abided by and one rule alone: he simply did not _care_ about others. Their opinions, their views, their likes and dislikes. Definitely not Heaven, certainly not Hell.

He could not give a fig for them.

And yet…

And yet once more, he felt the prickle of a familiar presence and spotted a particular angel long before the angel even noticed him. Of course, the angel was a shadow at the Emperor’s side, which explained why he was somewhat preoccupied.

Aziraphale’s own task – dropping hints to Prince Jing of Guanglin an impression that magic might aid his plans – had been completed easily enough. The young man was ambitious enough to grasp at anything that might help his cause. Moreso since his previous plans of rebellion had left him with far reduced powers and a chip on his shoulder to rival the Wu gorge.

The demon wandered out onto the veranda of the palace, the scents of rich perfumes, incense and polished wood overwhelming in their intensity. Outside, the air was fresh and clear, crickets chirping in the cultivated ground of the gardens.

If he was sensible, he thought, he would have left at once when the job was done.

He oughtn’t to have lingered.

“Aziraphale, isn’t it?”

The demon smiled at the moon and then turned as if surprised. “Ah! Angel!” He spread his hands, flowing sleeves swinging as he did his best attempt at the formal local bow. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

Crowley shifted from one foot to the other. Like Aziraphale, he had donned the many-layered robes favoured by the Han court, his hair twisted up and fastened with a metal hairpiece that looked like a flame. “My lot wanted me to keep an eye on the Emperor for a little bit,” he admitted. He glanced out across the garden and around at the elegant buildings. “It’s…” A soft, almost happy expression crossed his face. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”

It was, and yet Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire the touch of silver moonlight on the angel’s rapturous face. “It certainly is very impressive.”

Crowley looked at him then and he hastily looked away, as if very interested in the sloping beams above them. “Are you staying long?” the angel asked.

No was the correct answer.

“Possibly,” he said. “You?”

“A few more days.” Crowley shook back his sleeves, bracing his hands on the polished wooden rail that ran the width of the terrace. The wind rippled around them, the susurration of the leaves a whisper in the quiet of the night. 

For several moments they stood there in silence, the angel gazing out over the gardens, the demon gazing at the angel.

“I’ve heard,” Aziraphale said, reaching a tentative hand across the void between them, “that they make some rather nice dumplings here. Do you know of anywhere one might find some?”

The angel gave a small, but very real laugh, a sound Aziraphale found rather embarrassingly charming. “Always food with you, isn’t it?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. “I heard some of the servants talk about a place further out in the city. Near the eastern gate, I think.”

“Could you show me?” Aziraphale nearly bit through his damn tongue. Far, far too eager, that. He held up a hand. “No, never mind. You must be busy enough. I won’t intrude on your time, my dear.”

The angel stared at him, almost too hard and too long. “Show you?” he echoed.

“Like I said,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head, “no need. I’m sure I can find my way to the Eastern gate.”

“No.” Crowley held up a hand, then just as quickly dropped it. “I mean, no, I’m not busy. Not at the moment.” A tentative flicker of a smile crossed his face. “I can show you the way. If you would like.”

Something peculiar and warm bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest and he beamed. “That would be _marvellous_.”

And, he thought as he walked down the steps with the angel, probably the most foolish thing he had ever done. But what was life without those little adventures?

Crowley offered him another small smile.

What indeed?


	20. 130AD - Wreath - Caledonia

“That’s new.”

Crowley started, turning. “Where did you come from?”

“Oh, you know…” Aziraphale was sprawled out comfortably on the long grass beside him, as if he was on a couch in Rome, his toga spreading around him. Purple band, Crowley noticed with a wry smile. He’d obviously been moving up the social ladder. The demon waved an expansive hand towards the wall that stretched from east to west as far as the eye could see. “From civilisation. The other side.”

Crowley snorted, resuming his current occupation of delicately slitting the stalks of wildflowers and threading them through one another. “I should’ve guessed as much from your outfit.”

Aziraphale lifted up one of the draping folds. “Well, yes.” He wrinkled his nose. “They’re such a bother to get on. Your outfit looks much simpler.”

“This side of the wall has benefits,” Crowley retorted. He was wearing the local garb, which was a good deal sturdier than the Roman tunics he’d tried. They dressed for the weather here. Layers. Layers and breeches. Unless in battle, but that was another matter. He slanted another look at Aziraphale. “So… temptations?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale propped his cheek against his palm and sighed. “I’m dreadfully sorry, darling, but some of my rogues may be coming to harry your fellows.”

Another stalk threaded neatly through. Two more and it would be a perfect ring. “They can try.” The angel tilted his masterwork, examining it, then picked up a gorgeous yellow flower, working determinedly and very much _not_ moving his mouth.

“You’re smiling.”

“M’not.”

“You are!” Aziraphale squirmed closer, reaching up to poke Crowley’s cheek, which made his lips twitch even more. “Look! There! You’re smiling! There’s a _dimple, _for Satan’s sake! This is just like when…” His eyes widened. “Oh, don’t tell me my chaps are being thwarted again! Angel!”

“Never said that,” Crowley said innocently. “Never said a thing. Just said they can try whatever they’re planning to do.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes pitifully. “Angel!”

Crowley looked down at him and couldn’t help the crooked smile that slipped across his face. “I’m just doing my job. Just like you. Can’t say I’m not.”

“Ugh!” Aziraphale slumped dramatically on the grass. “I come all this way, I do all this hard work and for what?”

Crowley finished threading off the end of the floral wreath and studied it, then leaned over and plopped it on Aziraphale’s head. “There you go,” he said. “Compensation.”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him. “But it’s yours.”

He shrugged. “I can make another one.”

The demon reached up, tentatively touching it as if he expected it to dissolve on contact, his expression so bewildered that Crowley almost felt sorry for him. Demons probably didn’t get given things very often. Maybe it was the shock.

“You don’t have to keep it, if it’s weird,” he offered.

Aziraphale immediately sat up, shying away defensively. “No, my dear! It’s mine now.” He adjusted it carefully, then posed. “How does it look?”

Crowley tilted his head, studying him. “Like Dionysus,” he decided, “with a little more colour.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Wonderful.” He leaned forward again and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I shall cherish it.”

A warm flush spread up the back of Crowley’s neck. “It’s just flowers,” he said, ducking his head. “Nothing to fuss about.”

“It’s something you made,” Aziraphale said, the sincerity in his voice catching the angel by surprise. “That’s special.”

Crowley blushed even more hotly and grabbed a handful of grass, tearing it and throwing it at the demon. “Shaddup.”

Aziraphale just laughed at him.


	21. 330AD - Constantinople - Resurrection

From the top of the newly-constructed city walls, a man could see the whole city rising before him.

Crowley gazed up at the scatter of scaffolding and masonry ahead of him, the palace close to complete now, and his destination. It shone pale gold in the early morning light, fresh-cut stone still sharp-edged and gleaming.

Crowley spread his wings and leapt.

He’d followed the whispers of the empire, heard about the edicts almost twenty years earlier, and the name that they carried. He’d painted the sky one fateful morning and ever since then, the Emperor had raised up a name that had slowly but surely spread like a flame catching the edge of kindling.

The name still brought to mind blood and bone and the day that shattered Crowley’s heart and resolve.

_Why have you forsaken me_?

Yeshua had spoken – sobbed – the words. They’d carved themselves onto Crowley’s heart, etched themselves there, and even now, centuries on, the scars still ached.

It was meant to cause a spike in faith. That was what Gabriel had said. And yet, when Crowley heard the whispers in the days, weeks, months, years, decades afterwards, he heard of miracles and a man walking with impossible wounds and a blessing in his heart.

Crowley wanted to believe the stories were true. Yeshua’s followers were making a name for themselves anyway. They’d even become the official religion in a few countries, carrying his name like a banner. Maybe the impossible and miraculous had happened and Gabriel and the rest of the angels were as out of the loop as Crowley was himself. God liked her mysterious ways, after all.

Or maybe the humans wanted to believe it. They made up stories to comfort themselves. Maybe this was another one. And maybe, he wanted to believe it too, because… because he had to believe that all that pain and suffering and grief couldn’t have been for nothing.

Whatever had happened, that wooden cross was being raised aloft by far more than a dozen good-natured young men from Judea. Even by the Emperor of Rome.

The angel alighted on a broad terrace on the outer wall of the palace, overlooking the sea. Mosaics gleamed on the floor, patterns of animals and men and flowering trees. Crowley crouched down to trace the shape of a bird in flight. Nothing more than chips of stone arranged on the floor, but so real it looked as if it might take wing.

Humans could make art out of _anything_. It never stopped amazing him.

Footfalls nearby made him lift his head.

A man, no longer young, stared warily at him from the doorway.

Crowley smiled, rising. Faith didn’t have to be blood and bone and pain and screams. Faith could be kindness, a hand held out to someone who was struggling, a glimpse of something wonderful. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, unfurling his wings.

The name – _that_ name – tripped from the man’s lips.

“Come with me,” Crowley said, beckoning. “I want to show you something.”

He didn’t wait and didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. The beacon of Constantine’s faith was glowing more brightly by the moment. Crowley walked on through the palace, walked through closed doors and past unseeing guards. Armour rattled and sandals scuffed and flurrying, worried voices followed, but he didn’t look back.

The whispers turned into a hum and the hum into a low, throbbing roar as they wound through the dawn-touched city. Doubters were trailing with them, curious and amused.

“Where are we going?” the Emperor asked as they ascended the mese from the heart of the city towards the north west walls and the rise of Fourth Hill.

Crowley glanced back with a smile, the warm breeze ruffling the curls of his hair against his throat. “Not far,” he said, beckoning again.

There were buildings and streets all around them, some of them new, some of the already centuries old. The city was growing, yes, but it wasn’t done yet. One day, Crowley could picture it spreading as far as the eye could see, scattered on all side of the rivers that led to the sea.

A temple, worn and neglected greeted them. It was a lovely place, but forgotten and empty now. The faithful were drifting away from it, but Crowley could _feel_ the love that had centred there for generations. It was a holy place, regardless of the shape or form or belief.

Crowley stopped there and turned. “This place will be a jewel.”

“A jewel?” Constantine echoed.

Crowley went to one knee and touched his hand to the neglected grounds. Threads of light spread out, a template, an outline, glowing on the ground around the edifice. It would carry the name of the little boy who had bled and died for their faith. They would build in the shape of the cross that he died upon. They would _remember_ him.

A prayer of wonder slipped through the Emperor’s lips, his gaze following the outline.

“Show me,” he breathed, belief taking hold like living flame.

Crowley nodded and smiled.

Once again, it would be a haven, a safe place, a blessed place. Somewhere for those who sought the face of their God.

“Come with me,” he said gently. “Let me show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of historical notes on this chapter:  
Under Constantine, Christianity was made an official religion for the Roman Empire. Constantine started using the Greek letters for Christ as part of his merchandise after seeing a sign in the sky before a battle and being told by a divine voice that he would gain victory.   
When he made Byzantium his new capital and changed the name to Constantinople, Christianity was really starting to take root. The city was officially consecrated in 330AD and the church Crowley inspired was completed 337AD, after Constantine’s death. According to urban legends, Constantine was led to the site by an angel only he could see, who showed him the layout for the building and led him around it. Of course I had to use it :)  
It was called the Church of the Holy Apostles, built on a former temple to Aphrodite. Centuries later, by the time the Ottoman took the city, the church was a dilapidated ruin and was replaced with the still-existing Fatih Mosque complex.


	22. 562AD - The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You remember,” he said, words pouring out in a rush, “what you said when we ran into each other during that whole… black knight fiasco?”  
Some twenty years ago, Aziraphale thought, but of course. Of course he remembered, as he remembers every damned encounter.  
“That we both work too hard and should relax?” he said as nonchalantly as he can. He lifts his cup towards his lips. “Come to take me up on my offer?”  
“Sort of.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said, folding his arms on the table as he sat down opposite Aziraphale.

“Did it hurt?” The angel looked stung and Aziraphale winced. “Sorry. Habit. If you can’t give insults as easily as breathing in Hell, you’ll get run all over.” He squinted across the table. “I didn’t expect to see you here, my dear.”

The angel shrugged, looking around the dingy tavern. “I was in the area. Thought I sensed you.”

Aziraphale miracled up another cup and filled it from his pitcher. “So what have you been thinking about, then?”

Crowley snatched the cup, knocking back the contents in three quick gulps. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. He’d clearly been practising a lot since Rome. “You remember,” he said, words pouring out in a rush, “what you said when we ran into each other during that whole… black knight fiasco?”

Some twenty years ago, Aziraphale thought, but of course. Of course he remembered, as he remembers every damned encounter.

“That we both work too hard and should relax?” he said as nonchalantly as he could. He lifted his cup towards his lips. “Come to take me up on my offer?”

“Sort of.”

Aziraphale choked so hard he ended up spluttering wine down his elegant tunic. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

Crowley flushed to the roots of his hair. “What you said. I mean, it made sense. Logically. Mathematically. We both spend a lot of time rushing about and wasting time that could be better spent elsewhere.”

The demon stared at him. “I don’t– you want to– you _agree_ with me?”

“Sort of!” Crowley hastily repeated. “Look, you’re right about the cancelling each other out, but we can’t _not_ do our jobs. Someone would notice the deficit. They’re…” A grimace slid across his face. “It’s tabulated, the number of miracles in and out. Set numbers. If they fall short on either side, they would start cracking down on people.”

Aziraphale frowned, bewildered. “So you don’t want us to _not_ do our jobs?”

Crowley fidgeted, pressing his clasped hands to his mouth. “I… I have a suggestion.”

“I’m all ears.”

The angel grabbed the pitcher, refilling the cup and draining it again. “So…” He took a deep, shaking breath. “So the jobs need to be done, right?” Aziraphale nodded, watching the flush spreading across Crowley’s cheeks. “But it’s a waste of time for both of us to go to the same place at the same time.”

“Mm.”

Crowley folded his fingers tightly together on the tabletop. “What if one of us went and did both the jobs? That way, the other could get on with… whatever they wanted to get on with.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “One of us? One of us does both temptations and blessings?” He leaned across the table, searching the angel’s face. “You _want_ to do temptations?”

“It can’t be _that_ hard,” Crowley said with a watery smile. “Humans are… well, they can be terrible without much help.”

“But you–” Aziraphale waved a helpless hand at him, the only decent angel he’d had the good fortune to meet. “You’re an _angel_, Crowley. Won’t it… you could get in a lot of trouble, if they found out you were doing that?”

The angel’s jaw clenched mutinously. “If it gives me more time to make things better, I think I can risk a little temptation now and again.”

Ah.

Now, that made a lot more sense.

“So the job gets done,” the demon observed, “and, in the meantime, when you’re on your downtime, you’re bettering mankind on the side?”

Crowley fidgeted again. “It wouldn’t be miracles or anything like that,” he muttered. “Technically, it wouldn’t count.”

Technically, Aziraphale thought. From the sound of it, Crowley was very good at technicalities. Most angels weren’t. Most of them were stuffy, by-the-book, regimented idiots. But not Crowley, with his mind fizzing with questions and his heart overflowing with good intentions.

He set his cup down on the table. “Would you trust me, then?”

“What?” Crowley’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“One of us doing both jobs. You’d trust me to do your miracles?” He tried to scoff, but it came out as more of a tired laugh. “I’m a _demon_, Crowley. You’d have to believe that I would do what I said _and_ that I could still perform a miracle.”

Crowley stared at him. “Of course you can,” he said. “You were an angel.”

“Was. Past tense. Very past. We don’t even know that I still–”

“You can,” Crowley said again, shaking his head. “Why on earth wouldn’t you be able to? You do them all the time, in the other direction.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Crowley laughed, lines creasing around his eyes and mouth. “It _is_ actually. It–” An odd, bittersweet smile crossed his face. “Well, it _was_ written. Can’t change what you’re made of, Aziraphale, but you can change what you do with it.”

“I… I don’t know about that.” Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “I don’t think I _know_ how to do good anymore.”

Crowley snorted. Loudly.

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I don’t. I’m a foul and terrible demon, I’ll have you know!”

“And yet, within two minutes of me sitting down at your table, you apologised to me, got an extra cup and shared your drink with me.” Crowley leaned across the table, those honey eyes dancing. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to be good. I see it every time I see you.”

Seeing you. That, Aziraphale thought helplessly, was the point.

“That– it isn’t–” He huffed into his cup, then set it down. “Even if I _can_ still do it, you’re saying you would trust _me_, a Fallen, a demon, a creature of Hell, to keep up my end of the bargain?” 

In the gloom of the tavern, Crowley’s smile lit the room. “Of course.” He reached over and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand quickly. “You’re my friend.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then looked down at his hand, rubbing his thumb along the places where the angel’s fingers had touched, as if he could preserve the glowing warmth. “I’m bad for you, angel,” he said quietly.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Crowley said with that gentle firmness that seemed as immovable as a mountain. He tilted his head, his hair spilling around his cheeks. “What do you say, Aziraphale? Can we come to some kind of arrangement?”

Aziraphale raised his eyes back to the angel’s. “_If_ I can do it,” he caution, “and that’s still a big if, then…” Crowley’s hopeful expression could have broken the most resolved of demons. “Well, I don’t see why we can’t at least give it a try.”

And all at once, he was sure he had gone blind, dazzled by the angel’s joy.


	23. 563AD - Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed my lads

“Right.” Aziraphale clapped his hands, rubbing them together. He scanned the crowd for his current target. It was the first time they’d been in the same place at the same time for work in months and seemed as good a time as any to test the angel’s capabilities. “Let’s see you in action.”

“I really appreciate how much you trust me,” Crowley retorted dryly.

Aziraphale gave him a look. “You, my dear, are the most angelic of angels I know. Temptation isn’t your purview.” He spotted the man in question. “That fellow over there. He plans on joining the priesthood. My task is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The angel gave a disbelieving snort. “That’s _it_? I thought you wanted to test me?”

Oh, it was adorable how smug the little rogue could be.

“Well, go on then,” he goaded. “Show me what you can do.”

Still chuckling, Crowley drew the world around him, bleeding into the shadows of the town square, an outline of starlight and flame in the twilight. Aziraphale followed, though he paused a few lengths away, close enough to hear and step in, should it be required.

The man – young, thin-faced and ebony skinned – was haggling over the price of fruit with the merchant as Crowley moved alongside him. The angel leaned in intimately close, fingertips touching the back of the man’s nape, and whispered softly into his ear, far too softly for Aziraphale to make out the words, but the thread of allure and suggestion wove through the air like a ripple of perfume escaping a bottle.

Aziraphale blinked stupidly.

_That_ was coming from Crowley?

By the time his senses bothered to come back, Crowley was standing in front of him, an amused look on his face.

“What?” he demanded.

“You’ve been staring into space for the last five minutes,” the angel replied. “Thought you’d at least’ve paid attention. You’re the one who wanted to test me.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “Have you done temptations before?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? Because that felt awfully well-done for a first attempt?”

The tips of Crowley’s ears turned pink and he tugged at the front of his tunic. “Don’t be daft! It’s like I told you – we’re of the same stock, angels and demons. What we do, it’s basically the same thing, just in different directions. How hard could it be?”

“I see.” Aziraphale really didn’t. There were plenty of demons below who could only pick away at a soul at a time, and some of them hadn’t been able to figure out how to do it for centuries. “Well, you’re a natural then. Like a duck to water.”

The angel shrugged. “I just know what makes humans tick,” he demurred. “It makes things easier.”

That explained it, Aziraphale thought, nodding. If you knew how your target worked, of course you could be more precise and, by comparison, seem much more effective. Heaven wouldn’t waste someone powerful as a babysitter for humanity after all.

“What did you tell him, anyway?” he inquired, as they meandered back out of the town square.

Crowley glanced at him. “Only a few questions to make him think.”

“Questions? Is that all?”

A bittersweet smile crossed the angel’s face. “It can be enough.” He paused at a crossroad between rows of houses. “This way.”

“My turn?” Aziraphale guessed.

“Might as well,” Crowley shot back over his shoulder. “I can give you marks out of ten.”

“Hey!”

“What?” Crowley bloody well twinkled at him. “That’s what you were trying to do with me.”

“But I didn’t!”

“Because you got distracted,” Crowley replied. He paused outside a doorway. “You’re looking for Makda. Basic miracle.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “For what?”

The angel offered a soft, serene smile. “You’ll figure it out.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, that’s hardly fair when I told you what you had to do.”

To his astonishment, Crowley reached out and squeezed his arm. “You can do it. I know you can.”

As if he wasn’t scorching a brand down through the layers of cloth and into Aziraphale’s skin.

“Yes. Right.” The demon cleared his throat. “I’ll just… go and do it, then, shall I?”

Crowley stepped back from the doorway, shooing him in.

The inside of the mud-brick house was warmly-lit with several oil lamps. Reasonably well-off family. Nice weavings and even some furniture. And a young woman squatted by a fire-pit, prodding at the contents of a pot.

Makda, he recognised at once.

Right. How to approach her.

Well… for a temptation, you just nudged their attention to something they wanted. Maybe it was the same for blessings. In the opposite direction, Crowley had said. So what did this girl want?

He drifted closer on silent feet, crouching down and staring at her, skimming the surface of her soul, taking in what he could from her. And like an oasis appearing in the middle of a desert, he _saw_, and that… oh, that was a simple one.

Aziraphale plucked at his lower lip pensively. Tempting someone to do something was a piece of cake compared to this. But then, Crowley insisted he could. Trusted him to do it as well. An actual genuine divine miracle.

If it was like the blessing maybe it was the same for the demonic miracles? Just… redirect them a little.

He took a shivering breath and reached for power he hadn’t used in millennia and _snapped_.

Makda made a startled sound, clutching at her stomach. As well she might when the cause of all her pain had been removed entirely. She babbled a garbled prayer, falling down onto her knees and pressing both hands to her bare brown belly as if she couldn’t believe it.

“Good work,” Crowley murmured from the door.

Aziraphale didn’t turn, watching the faith blossom in the sobbing woman. She was positively glowing. “I did it,” he said, dazed. “A miracle. A divine miracle.”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s footsteps approached. “You healed her.” A brief squeeze to his shoulder made Aziraphale look up. “See? We’re not that different.”

The angel offered his other hand and, reeling too much to even bask in the novelty of that, Aziraphale grabbed it, tottering back to his feet.

Honey eyes surveyed him. “I think,” Crowley said, “you need a drink.”

Aziraphale could only nod.

A divine miracle.

Who knew?

Well, apart from Crowley, of course…

He laughed weakly. Of course. How could his daft rascal of an angel be anything but right.


	24. 596AD - Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 24 - Mockery**

The groom and his entourage were carousing out into the streets, singing and clapping and about to have the night of their lives. Aziraphale watched them go. It had been easy enough to plant a few temptations among the extended family, which meant he was free for the rest of the evening.

It also meant he was able to focus on the niggling little buzz at the edge of his senses that said a particular angel was somewhere nearby. Cheeky little thing hadn’t even mentioned that he might be heading to the Levant, let alone to this particular part of Beirut.

They hadn’t seen one another for a couple of years, though it was still more frequently than it had been in the further past. The Arrangement guaranteed that.

The demon paused, relieving the table beside him of a few more dates, then walked out into the city and through the winding streets and staircases. It had been quite some time since he had visited the city, but he had always found it a rather charming place.

To his surprise, the angel was barely three streets away and even as he approached, he could hear the singing and music. Tamborines and laughter and the sound of a company made entirely of women.

A sweep of his hand made him more presentable company and he slipped, unnoticed, into the elegant house to join the throng of ladies.

It came as no surprise to discover that this was the assembly of the other half of the wedding. The bride and her friends were in the middle of the floor, trying their utmost to teach an uncoordinated young woman to dance.

Or, as it turned out, not so young and certainly not a standard definition of a woman.

Crowley was laughing as hard as the rest of them as she tripped over her own skirts, her own feet and everybody else’s feet as well, making an easy mockery of the deftness of her companions. The bride beamed, catching her hands and guiding them.

“Almost!”

“I don’t think I’m made to dance!” Crowley protested, still laughing. “I can spin, but don’t ask for more than that.”

Aziraphale withdrew from mortal sight, simply watching her. It was so rare, he thought, for the angel to smile and laugh. Crowley spent so much time wound up in his thoughts that joy rarely seemed to break through and reach him. But around the humans, she was laughing and there was a brightness in her eyes, a warmth in her face, and…

And she was _exquisite._

What had Heaven done to smother that spark? That passion and rapture? They always insisted they were creatures of love and beneficence and yet they had reduced Crowley to flinching at shadows, watching over his shoulders as if hunted, never able to simply _be_ who he clearly was.

It was stupid to be jealous of the humans, who clearly saw this side of the angel.

Yes, occasionally Crowley offered him a breadcrumb of the feast he was currently displaying, but there was too much history between them and where they both came from, what they were, still weighted every encounter, no matter how even and calm things seemed on the surface.

So, while he had the opportunity, Aziraphale glutted himself, drinking in every laugh, every smile, and that beautiful, brilliant spark. One day, he decided, he would be the cause. One day, he would see the angel happy, if he had to raze every angel in Heaven to make it so.


	25. 1308 - Marienburg - Hale

Marienburg – 1308

“Aha!” Aziraphale declared victoriously.

Crowley, who had given a rather impressive yelp before falling off his stool, glowered up from the floor. “Do you _have _to show up like that?”

The demon shrugged. “Well, if I don’t have somewhere I can send you a message, how on earth am I meant to find you if not manifesting in your precise location?” He offered his hand, which Crowley huffed and ignored as he picked himself up and dusted his tunic down. “Oh come now, dear. Don’t be petulant.”

The angel shot a stern look at him. “You don’t have to just… appear like that.”

“Well no,” Aziraphale agreed, propping his elbow on the table and cupping his chin in his hand. He flashed a winning smile. “But I do so love that look on your face when I do.”

Crowley picked up his overturned stool and set it on its feet again. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grumbled. “Evil demon. Blah blah blah.” When he sat down, he sat noticeably further away than he needed to. “What do you want, then?”

“Fine welcome I call that,” Aziraphale huffed, picking up the angel’s abandoned flagon of ale and taking a mouthful. “I come all this way and you don’t even seem pleased to see me.”

Crowley rubbed his forehead. “Aziraphale…” he said and he did sound uncommonly tired.

Aziraphale eyed him, concerned. “Are you quite well, my dear? You seem a little more… on edge than usual.”

“Maybe I don’t like people sneaking up on me,” the angel retorted sharply.

The demon scratched his lower lip thoughtfully. “No. No, it’s more than that. What on earth’s the matter?”

Crowley folded and unfolded his hands on the table top, then glanced around the room. A grand one, Aziraphale noticed. Colourful tiles on the floor. Arched windows along the opposite wall. Banners hanging between them with a familiar sigil of a black cross on white.

“Oh dear Lord…” he groaned. “This isn’t one of the Teutonic havens, is it?”

Crowley nodded, looking blankly at his hands.

“Here for a blessing or two, are you?”

“Mm.”

And yet, here he was, sitting in a deserted dining hall with the leftover scraps of a meal and not a knight to be seen anywhere. Aziraphale rose and ambled over to the window, peering out into the courtyard below. Ah. There they all were and they seemed in quite a rush to be off out.

“They seem quite fired up,” he observed.

“Don’t,” Crowley said unhappily.

Aziraphale glanced back at him. The angel had propped his elbows on the table and had dropped his head into his hands. “Off somewhere nice, are they?” he inquired, though it felt like prodding a sore tooth despite knowing it would only make things worse.

Crowley’s thin shoulders tensed up. “Danzig.”

Danzig? It was a reasonably-sized town on the coast. Not especially significant, although a good deal of the local amber trade _did_ pass through there. He frowned, drumming his fingertips on the window ledge.

“Your lot?” he asked. “The… saga down there, I mean.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not specifically. Just had to give one of them a bit more protection than usual.”

For visiting a coastal town with his cross and heavily-armed friends.

Oh, that had the shape of something rather grim and unpleasant. No wonder the poor angel was on edge. That, he decided, demanded a distraction. Poor fellow worried himself sick often enough. Better to redirect his thoughts.

“How am I meant to forewarn you, then?” he demanded.

Crowley tilted his head, peering over his shoulder. “Eh?”

Aziraphale strolled back over to the table and sprawled down onto one of the stools beside him. There was a conveniently half-eaten chicken leg on the plate and it wasn’t as if he had to be concerned about human bacteria, so he snatched it up and took a bite.

“If I’m not allowed to simply appear where you are,” he said, after delicately dabbing his mouth with a kerchief. “How am I meant to get in touch with you?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite understand the change in topic. “In touch?”

“You know.” Aziraphale leaned forward and gave him a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “When we arrange our secret conclave and conduct our naughty affairs.”

To his relief, the angel laughed weakly. “You’re terrible.”

Aziraphale aped a courtly bow, twirling his chicken leg extravagantly. “Thank you for finally acknowledging it!”

“You know that’s _not_ what I meant.”

“So you say,” Aziraphale retorted. He took another bite. “So. Do you have any suggestions, oh wise and clever angel? Or am I going to catch you in the act one of these days?”

“In the act? The act of _what_?”

He shrugged. “I have _no_ idea, my darling. That would be the pleasure of the surprise.” He widened his eyes. “Maybe you lead a salacious double life I know nothing about! Perhaps you are”– he clasped his empty hand to his heart–“_lewd_.”

Crowley actually burst out laughing. “You are such an idiot.”

“But,” Aziraphale said, “you never said that I was _wrong_.”

“As if that’s in question,” Crowley said, but he was still smiling. “It’s what you do.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale thinned his lips, feigning indignation. “There are plenty of things I’ve been right about.”

“Name one!”

The demon tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Plum wine. Dumplings. Quail eggs. Fried–”

“Except food,” Crowley interjected.

Aziraphale beamed. “That you _adore_ me.”

Crowley’s grin turned into a softer smile. “You’re still an idiot.”

“Said the pot unto the kettle,” Aziraphale retorted airily but he couldn’t fight down the smile for long. He slid the plate closer to the angel. “Try the chicken, my dear. It really is rather good.”

Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically. “_Fine_,” he sighed, but the smile was there, lingering in his honey eyes, and that was enough of a success for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the event the lads are both trying to strategically ignore is the massacre in Gdansk by the Teutonic knights, where some figures say up to 10,000 of the local population died.


	26. 1348 - Damascus - Blessing in Disguise

**1348 – Damascus **

The sun had barely crested the horizon, the day still comparatively cool, but the city was entirely awake.

Aziraphale paced back and forth along the edge of the rooftop. It gave him a clear view of the whole city. A few years ago, it would have been uncanny to see the streets so deserted, even in the early hours, but not now. Many places had curfews. Many had fresh walls bricked up over doorways. Many had streets paved with corpses, too many for the death collectors to manage.

Here, though…

The swell of faith and sanctity was prickling along his skin.

Crowley hadn’t asked him to come. He had offered. The entire messy state of affairs was wearing painfully on the angel, lives slipping through his fingers like sand. There were only so many miracles one could perform when the sickness swept in like a tide and even then, there was no guarantee it would be enough. So he had offered to come since he had business in the city anyway and Crowley’s thin shoulders had sagged in gratitude.

From the Grand Mosque, the muezzin’s voice rose, calling – needlessly – to the faithful. It was unnecessary.

For three days, the entire city had been fasting – well, aside from that one young woman who had given in to the temptation to devour a handful of figs. He _was_ there for at least one temptation after all – on the command of the city leaders. Fasting and prayer were the key they believed.

For three days, the bazaars had been quiet. No sizzle of meat on charcoal, no bread swelling and rising in the stone ovens, no splash of sweet rosewater on pastries. Only penitence and fear and desperation and prayer.

The sun had touched the city gates when the doors opened and the streets were suddenly alive with people.

Columns of them, all shapes, sizes, ages and genders, poured out of the churches and the mosques and the synagogues. The hum of prayer and the scent and sound of thousands of people weeping rumbled in the air. Their holy books were carried with them and the crowds crashed and merged at the junctions of the streets, weaving amongst one another like the colourful threads in a tapestry, tens of thousands of bare feet drumming on the sun-warmed ground. Ululations rose up from the women, the men raising their holy books aloft.

Save us, they were praying as they swept like a living wave in the direction of the holiest of sanctuaries. He didn’t need to get down among them to know that. Spare us. Forgive us. Show mercy.

Rivalries and enmities and difference in faith were forgotten and, for a brief, and dizzying moment, they were all simply _humans_.

Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat. _This_ was what the angel believed in. _This_ is what he saw when he looked at humanity. Their capacity for hope and faith and a shared purpose. This is what he had always wanted for them.

“I’m going to regret this,” he breathed and stretched out his hand.

* * *

**Two months later – Avignon **

“Your work?”

Crowley glanced around, a weak smile crossing his lips at the sight of Aziraphale. “A little,” he said, looking back across the courtyard. “He did it before, but I gave it a bit of a boost this time, since some stubborn idiots weren’t listening.”

The demon sighed. “They do like to blame one another an awful lot, don’t they?”

“People want to have something they can fight back against,” Crowley murmured. “If you can’t fight an illness and you can’t fight God, you find someone in your proximity who is just different enough to be a target.” He rubbed his hands slowly together. “Clement is a decent sort. I just hope it’ll help.”

Aziraphale moved a little closer, so close that their arms brushed through the sleeves of their tunics. “I wish you had gone to Damascus, my dear,” he said softly. “It was… this wasn’t necessary there. They… oh, my dear, it was so… _powerful_.”

Damascus.

Oh. Yes.

That miracle he was to deliver, but which he had placed in Aziraphale’s hands.

He glanced at the demon. “I heard the death toll dropped from the tens of thousands overnight,” he said softly. “Cairo was overflowing with the dead, but Damascus only a few thousand a day.”

Aziraphale pointedly didn’t look at him. “You should have seen it.” There was something soft, wondering in his voice. “All of them – _all_ of them – came together. Every faith and creed and age.” He shook his head as if he could scarcely understand it. “I thought– I didn’t realise how much belief…”

“It’s a remarkable thing, isn’t it?” Crowley murmured, gazing at him, the softness around his eyes, the almost angelic rapture in his face.

“Faith?”

The angel shook his head with a small smile. “Humanity when they unite for the greater good.”

Blue eyes met his. “You knew what was happening there… didn’t you?”

Crowley nodded. “I knew.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice shook. “It should have been yours. You should have been there. You should have been the one to see it all.”

Crowley gently nudged him with his elbow. “I wanted you to see it.” He smiled, quick and bright. “You’ve dealt with so much of the horror for me. The least I could do was let you share some of the wonder.”

To his astonishment, Aziraphale’s lip trembled. “Oh, my _dear_…”

Crowley ducked his head, the demon’s tremulous joyful emotions a balm after so many months of aching misery. “Oh shush.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes on this one. It's set during The Great Mortality, ie. the first and worst episode of the plague which killed around 10 million people worldwide.
> 
> Ibn Battuta, a noted travel-writer in the 1300s, passed through Damascus in July of 1348. The three days of fasting and the entire city of Muslims, Jews and Christians coming together in prayer appeared in his journal - "The entire population of the city joined in the exodus, male and female, small and large ... the whole concourse of them in tears and humble supplications, imploring the favour of God through His books and His Prophets".
> 
> Meanwhile, in Europe, Pope Clement had to issue two separate Papal Bulls basically telling Christians "ffs, guys! Stop trying to blame the Jews for this! STOP IT! BAD CATHOLIC! NO BISCUIT!". He even stated anyone who blamed the Jewish people had been "seduced by that liar, the Devil". 
> 
> He also tried to find scientific reasons behind the plague (or as much as you can consider star-gazing the science of the day) and stayed in the plague-riddled city where he famously consecrated the Rhone river so they could deal with the massive volume of corpses who wouldn't otherwise get a proper burial.


	27. 1465 - Friendly Competition

“You are welcome, sir.”

Crowley took the knee. It was a bit of a fiasco. Plate armour was all fine and good when you were standing upright, but this bloody stupid King liked people to show proper fealty. Took him all his effort not to tilt sideways and end up in the dirt.

“My Lord,” he said, trying very hard not to wobble.

And then there was the getting back up. He was pretty sure he heard a member of the ladies court snigger. No surprise really, when he had to grab the arm of the nearest page boy and let gravity tilt him forward them back and eventually onto his feet.

The King – was this one a Charles? Or another John? They were all starting to bleed together a bit – was gracious enough not to laugh in his face, but Crowley could tell he hadn’t made the best impression. Still, he had to be a knight to get access to the right people and if it meant wandering around for a day or two like a tin of canned-angel, then he’d do it.

He definitely looked the part, which was all that mattered. Armour, check. Pointy sword in the sheath on his hip and tripping him up any time he tried to do anything, check. Nice fancy chivalric crest with wings and a scroll, check. He was quite proud of it, actually. Bit swankier than the bloke with tree stumps.

A young page scurried over to him from the edge of the hall. “Milord, your presence is requested.”

Already? He tried to hide his surprise. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Lead on then, young man.”

The page didn’t lead him to the knight, though. He led the angel right by and straight towards the colourful cluster of women in their finery and jewels and oh, some of them were lovely workmanship.

“That one,” the page said with a huge grin and pointed at a sombrely-dressed lady in a rich golden brown dress and pale silk wimple. Very respectable, very modest, eyes down and hands folded demurely around a prayer book in her lap.

It took him a minute to realise why she’d summoned him.

When he did, he croaked out, “Excuse me” and bolted as fast as he could to duck behind the nearest tapestry, clanking all the way. As soon as he was out of sight, he doubled over with a clatter, wheezing with suppressed laughter and bashing the side of his fist against the wall.

Footsteps came and went, then from the other side of the tapestry, someone gave him a sharp kick in the shin through the heavy cloth.

“Shut up,” Aziraphale murmured, sounding as sweet and modest as she looked.

“Nope!” Crowley squeaked, leaning helplessly against the wall, shaking with mirth. “What the hell are you meant to be?”

“I,” Aziraphale said, still in that calm, polite voice, “am a _lady_ and you are being the most unchivalrous bugger I have ever seen.”

Trying desperately to gather himself, Crowley peeked around the edge of the tapestry, lips twitching helplessly. Aziraphale pursed her lips, glowering at him, which definitely didn’t help matters. She looked like she wanted to lob the prayer book at his head.

“Married!” Crowley squeaked. “Married lady!”

“Yes,” Aziraphale growled. “It’s not that funny.”

Crowley pressed his lips together and shook his head. No. Not funny at all. The snickers escaped him anyway and the whistle of them through his nose made Aziraphale’s lips twitch as well. She reached up and clamped her hand over his face, shoving him back behind the tapestry and wiggled her way in behind him.

“Milady!” he gasped out. “Behind a tapestry with a knight? Shocking!”

She smacked him in the middle with the back of her hand, then hissed at him when it clanged. “Be _quiet_! No one will notice our absence for the moment, but you _can’t_ be prancing in like that and making such a tit of yourself.”

“I’m making a tit of myself?” He snorted. “You have a napkin on your head!”

“Did you or did you not almost fall arse over teakettle in front of the king?”

Crowley went pink. “That was you laughing, then?”

“Actually, no.” Aziraphale grimaced. “Damned difficult not to though.” She looked him up and down. “Honestly, you should’ve let me take that one off your hands. I can manage armour, darling, and you always look far better in a frock.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he admitted sheepishly. “Suppose it’s too late to change now.”

She grimaced and tugged at the collar of the wimple. “Unfortunately.”

“What are you in for anyway?”

She made a face. “Bit of adultery for one of the knights. Tempting him into a liaison with a married lady.”

Crowley looked her up and down. “Looking like that?”

Aziraphale dragged the hem of her trailing skirt up with a flourish, showing a glimpse of ankle. “I’ll have you know I’m a saucy wench.”

That set him off again, sniggering as quietly as he could.

“Oh hush,” she grumbled cheerfully, nudging him. “I have no doubt I’ll be more successful than your attempt at fancy-dressing as a skittle.”

“This knight,” Crowley said, dabbing the corner of one eye with a fingertip. “Four chevrons on his shield. Black on white?”

“Yes.” There was a suspicious pause. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Crowley replied, grinning. “Just you’ll have a trial getting him.”

Blue eyes narrowed at him. “Pray explain.”

He met her eyes. “Who’d’you think I’m here for?”

Aziraphale stared at him. “No! That one’s _mine_, you cheeky sod!”

“Winner takes all?”

The demon eyed him suspiciously, then held out a hand. “No cheating, darling. I’ll know if you do.”

Crowley widened his eyes innocently. “Would I?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s what worries me.”

Crowley beamed at her. “Don’t worry,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m an _angel_.”


	28. 1670 - Versailles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tasty prompt from Rocket-pool: Flashback, a la Crossing Paths. Maybe something in eastern Europe? Or a good palace intrigue?

In Versailles, one didn’t really need to _do_ anything to fan the flames of temptation.

The court was already a sizzling hotbed of scandal, intrigue and jealousy. The most a demon really needed to do was imply that Lady So-and-So might have been caught en flagrante delicto with Count Such-and-Such, picking the targets of his information with care, knowing full well that the gossip would filter through enough ears to cause envy, malice and lust.

Of course, the fact the words come from his lips to one, then her lips to another is neither here nor there. Gender is such a useful plaything and the men of the palace like a promiscuous woman with ample charms to divert them.

One such… charming boy caught Aziraphale from behind, rudely hiking up her skirts and fumbling under them.

Aziraphale raised his brows, changed his nether parts, and waited, nibbling on his lower lip, for the shriek of pain. One of the benefits, he thought happily, of being a demon was that your earthly body could do whatever you wanted it to.

Including biting where it ought not be able to bite.

It was one thing to be promiscuous. It was quite another to let some little bastard think he could get away with such coarse and unwanted attentions.

He moved through the rooms, changing form as he went into a more masculine guise to approach a handful of the royal bastards. A messy bunch, that lot, ready to lay hands on anyone who had not yet been conquered by one of their number. They even made a competition of it, which had always struck Aziraphale as a rather crass waste of time.

Still, humans were humans and they were damned good at being damned rotten.

“Anything interesting about?” he inquired, sprawling in among them as if he had always been there.

“Liselotte has a new Lady companion.” One of them said, grinning. “Older than most, but you should see the hair on her.”

“Fair?”

Another of the lads grinned, shaking his head. “Flaming red. We want to know if it’s real.”

“And how, pray,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows, “do you intend to find that out?”

One of the young men grabbed at the front of his breeches. “To see if the top matches the bottom,” he said with a leer.

Ah, of course. Humans and their… odd affectations. Didn’t they realise, he wondered, that some humans couldn’t even match all the hair on their heads, let alone around their genitalia. There were men enough with three shades of colour between brows, moustache and crown.

“Which is this mysterious lady, then?” he inquired, peering around the room.

The leader of this particular group of ruffians pointed across the room to a cluster of women.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped like a rock.

“The seated lady?” he said, straightening up. “Red hair, ivory gown? Gold at her throat?”

“The same!” One of the interchangeable idiots grinned at him. “How long do you–”

Aziraphale tightened his fingers in the boy’s frilled shirt. “That one,” he growled, the rumble in his voice making them quail away from him, “is _mine_. You touch her, you think of her, you _breathe_ the same air as her, I will make you wish for death.” His eyes blazed, his teeth sharp against his tongue. “Am I _understood_?”

The boys scattered like frightened rabbits.

They were only a few, he thought darkly. A handful of idiots and perverts in a court full of them. And Crowley was sitting there, radiant and glowing and smiling that damned angelic smile, and had no idea of the attention she was drawing.

He straightened up, pressing through the throng like a shark through the shoals. People spilled away from him and that was good. The men especially reared back in alarm and consternation, as well they should, as he let them feel a little of the trepidation every woman in the room was well-accustomed to.

He came to a halt before the Countess, but his eyes were only for Crowley, who flushed red and immediately started trying to hike up her fashionably revealing dress.

Aziraphale didn’t even bother with words. He flicked his eyes sideways towards the door that led into the gardens and raised his eyebrows. Crowley made a face at him, but then stepped sideways from human eyes.

“What do you want?” she demanded, self-consciously folding her arms over her breasts. Lord, she was lovely.

He offered her his arm. “A tête-à-tête?”

She glanced back at the woman who he presumed was her charge, chewing her lip, then nodded. “Five minutes, no more.”

It was five minutes more than he’d expected and he beamed at her as she slipped her arm through his, leading her through the oblivious crowds of people and out onto the terrace. The air was crisper and fresher than the hall, a gentle breeze sweeping in across the rolling gardens.

She stepped away from him at once – as usual – and sat down on the edge of the balustrade. “What do you _want_, Aziraphale?”

He gazed at her, taking note of the way her hands were already clenching in her lap, half-hidden in her wide skirts. “You look lovely,” he said.

Crowley flushed furiously and looked away. “You’re wasting your five minutes.”

“I’m not.” He sighed and sat down beside her. “Look… my dear… this place is a toxic cesspit. You… _can’t_ look as lovely and intriguing as you do. You’re drawing… the worst kind of attention.”

Crowley looked at him guardedly. “What?”

Aziraphale hesitated, then reached over and carefully squeezed her hand. “The men of this court are, generally, vile, rapacious little bastards. You are…” He hesitated, picking his words carefully. “They consider you… a fresh target, if you will. The first one to… plant his flag, so to speak, will be the victor.”

Crowley’s face twisted in distaste. “Ugh! This is like the Romans all over again!”

Aziraphale smiled crookedly. “They would like to think so.” He gave her hand another squeeze, then lifted his fingers away. “Perhaps make yourself a little less noticeable to stave off unwanted attentions?”

Crowley glanced down at herself. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” she said with a rueful look at him. “I thought I should try and blend in with what they were wearing.”

“You _do_ look… quite lovely,” Aziraphale said with a crooked smile. “If you need to say you were ravished by someone, you can always say I did it. Save the others the need to try.”

The angel arched a brow at him. “Probably better if I just change,” she said, getting up and shaking out her skirts. A couple of carefully-placed miracles and she went from alluring to still elegant but very clearly Do Not Touch style. “I have no plans to be ravished by anyone.”

Aziraphale sighed. “A shame. I would have been… very willing.”

Crowley laughed. “You’re terrible,” she said, adjusting the lace that hid her décolletage. “Are you coming back in?”

He smiled for her. “Shortly,” he said. “Enjoy your work, my dear.”

As soon as she was out of sight, he sank sideways against the foot of the statue beside him. “Damn it, you idiot,” he muttered. “Keep your mouth shut next time.”


	29. 1675 – Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed them

The performance was quite enthralling, though Aziraphale had to admit none of the comedic actresses had quite the flare that Mistress Gwynne had, when she took to the stage some ten years earlier.

He popped another grape in his mouth, watching raptly and ignoring the insistent tug at his elbow.

“Sst!”

He waved a hand beside his ear as if swatting a bothersome fly.

And, like an agitated bee, the distraction beside him flicked his ear, sharp as a sting.

“How dare–” Aziraphale snarled, whipping around, only to stop dead, blinking. “_Crowley_?”

In the modest garb of a puritan, Crowley glowered at him. “You were ignoring me,” she muttered. She jerked her head towards the lobby. “Need a word.”

Curious and concerned, Aziraphale squeezed his way out from his seat, treading on as many toes as possible as he did so. Petty, it may be, but the flecks and flares of ire were quite delicious. He ducked through the doorway and into the bustling hallway, where Crowley paced back and forth fretfully, clearly feeling out of place.

“So, my dear, what seems to be the matter?”

“I was over working in Parliament.”

He snorted. “That’s more my domain.”

She pursed her lips. “Look! It’s important! The king’s got his knickers in a twist about the number of coffee houses in the city. Seems to think they’re brewing sedition and treason along with the coffee and chocolate.”

“So?” Aziraphale wiggled the tip of his pink into his ear. “Kings are paranoid. This is hardly a new and shocking revelation.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of her nose. “The lines, Aziraphale. Read between the lines! What do people do to things that offend and threaten them? What did Cromwell do to theatres and fun and Christmas?”

Abruptly, Aziraphale understood. “No!”

“Yes!” She tugged him over to the side of the lobby. “Look, he’s planning on putting a ban through in parliament. I don’t know if you can stop it, but I’m bending all the ears I can as much as I can. It’s a service to people, a place of conviviality and friendship and all that.”

Which it was, for both of them. They even had a regular table at a rather nice little shop in Covent Garden.

“Right. Yes.” Aziraphale rubbed at his chin. “If I take the other angle: an indulgence, a luxury, a treat, somewhere to slothfully allow others to labour.”

“Yes!” Crowley’s expression brightened.

“How long do we have?”

Crowley made a face. “How long’s a piece of string? I think they’ll be trying to rush it through to shut him up and so people are too distracted by Christmas to notice what’s happening.”

“Cheeky buggers!” Aziraphale exclaimed, affronted. He snapped a paper and a sheet of parchment into existence. “Right. Which ones am I taking? And which ones are yours? It’s very difficult to tell these days.”

The angel rattled off a list of names.

“Mine or yours?” Aziraphale inquired after he wrote the last of them down. “I know I’ve had dealings with at least two of these chaps before.”

“Of course you have,” Crowley grumbled. “Those are mine. Don’t touch them.”

The demon couldn’t help widening his eyes a little. “Oh dear. It’s a little late for that.”

To his amusement, the angel hiked up her skirts and booted him in the shin.

“Ow!”

“I’ll do it again,” Crowley threatened, though she was grinning. “I’ll head back over. Make a start. You get on with yours.”

Aziraphale rolled up the paper, tucking it into his capacious pocket. “How shall we compare notes?”

The angel chewed her lip in thought. “Meet me at the coffee shop in three weeks?”

“You mean if it’s still open?”

She shrugged with a lop-sided smile. “Pretty much.”

__________________________________

**Three weeks later**

“Behold!” Aziraphale boomed, flinging his arms wide, his cape billowing. “We triumph!”

In the window-seat in the corner, Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake,” he said, as Aziraphale swanned over and tipped himself into the opposite chair. “Yeah, should go and tell them to ban it all after all.”

“Oh hush, angel,” Aziraphale chuckled, dragging the chocolate pot towards him and filling his cup with the rich brown liquid. “You know you adore the stuff as much as I do.”

The angel wrinkled his nose. “That, yes. You, less so.”

“Tsk, tsk. Fibbing again.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “I am grateful for the forewarning, mind you. Can you imagine how insufferable I might have become, if they took away my coffee and chocolate?”

“Become?” The angel yelped and pulled his feet up onto his chair. “Ow!”

“If you continue to be a saucy minx,” Aziraphale said airily, as if he hadn’t just kicked the angel in the ankle like a petulant child, “I shall continue to treat you as such.” He tilted his cup nonetheless. “But I shall drink to a successful mission.”

Crowley’s mildly offended expression softened. “Yeah.” He tapped his cup against Aziraphale’s. “To a successful mission.” He glanced up as one of the shop girls approached with a platter stacked high with warm buns. “And a sweet bun.”

Aziraphale’s gasp of delight was only a little exaggerated. “You _do_ like me!”

Crowley’s cheeks reddened. “Don’t tell,” he mumbled into his cup.

“My lips,” Aziraphale said, snatching one of the lovely steaming buns, “are sealed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I dealt with Charlie II's attempt at a ban on coffee shops in Crossing Paths, but I wanted to do it again :)


	30. 1695 - Rome - A Matter of Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed the boys.

“Oh good! You came!”

Crowley looked the demon up and down, fighting down the urge to burst out laughing. “What on earth are you meant to be?”

Aziraphale waved a hand. “I needed to be inconspicuous.”

The angel tilted his head slowly one way, then the other. “Inconspicuous. In a bright red frock. Course. Don’t know why I didn’t realise before.” He raised his eyebrows. “And why are we hanging around a Cardinal’s house?”

Aziraphale was practically bouncing on his toes. “I have found something you may enjoy! Something _edible_.”

“Ngh!” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Look, you don’t have to keep trying.”

“This is a certainty, my dear,” Aziraphale insisted. “You know I wouldn’t ply you with anything unless it was a certainty.”

It was true. The few times that Crowley had eaten with him, Aziraphale had offered his own platter, but never commented if Crowley didn’t take anything. The few times he had deliberately set out and found something Crowley liked, he lit up like a candle.

“All right,” Crowley allowed. “I’ll try it.” He glanced around the gardens, then scratched his chin. “Although isn’t it a bit daft disguising yourself as a Cardinal when you’re hiding in a Cardinal’s garden?”

The demon gave him an offended look. “Who’s going to bother their boss if he’s having a nice stroll around the grounds?”

Without another word, Crowley tilted sideways and stared pointedly beyond Aziraphale’s red-clad shoulder at the other red-clad figure who had just come in through the gates. One at a time, he raised his eyebrows, fighting a grin as Aziraphale turned and used a good selection of Eve’s favourite profanities.

Abruptly, the angel was hustled behind a hedge, snickering.

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale huffed, changing his clothes with a snap of his fingers, donning the same clothes as most of the household servants. He wrapped his hand around Crowley’s wrist, yanking him along behind him. “Come on, angel!”

“Didn’t say a thing,” Crowley said, still fighting down his laughter as he trotted after him.

The demon led them through a succession of doorways, into a grand and sprawling kitchen, which was frothing with staff doing dozens of different jobs.

“His Excellenecy has returned,” Aziraphale barked. “He demands refreshments for himself and his guest! Fresh ice at once!”

“Ice?” Crowley inquired. “You brought me all this way for _ice_?”

Aziraphale shushed him with a flap of his hand and hurried over to one of the kitchen attendants, who loaded up a tray with two covered bowls. Scooping up the tray, Aziraphale nodded urgently towards the door and the pair of them hurried back out into the sun-dappled gardens.

“This way!” Aziraphale said, rushing ahead. “I found a rather nice little nook!”

Crowley jogged after him. “S’funny how food is always the thing that gets you moving,” he teased.

Aziraphale stopped at a marble bench beside a pretty little fountain and set down the tray in the middle. “Things I like always give me incentive to pick up the pace,” he replied, gesturing to the other end of the bench. “If you’ll join me?”

Crowley swung one leg over the bench, straddling it. “All right. Impress me.”

Aziraphale whipped away the covers from the bowls, revealed smooth balls of bright pink… stuff. “They call it sorbetti.” He nudged one of the spoons towards Crowley. “I believe this one is strawberry flavour.”

Suspiciously, the angel picked up the metal spoon and dug a small wedge out of the heap and delicately licked it. And it _did_ taste like strawberries. Strawberries and sweetness and ice, and under the warm Italian sun, it was absolutely delicious. He dug his spoon in again and took another mouthful and another.

Aziraphale beamed. “I thought you might enjoy it,” he said, pretty much glowing. “Though you might want to be careful how fast you–”

Too late, Crowley realised what he might have been warning about, cold suddenly sharp and hard in his head. “Ohhhh! What is that?” He shook his head, but whatever it was stayed put. “Ow ow ow ow!”

“Too much ice too quickly,” Aziraphale replied with a fond chuckle. “Found that out on the Persian campaigns. One’s body doesn’t enjoy being crammed with cold stuff without warning and tries to let you know you may be dying an icy death.”

Crowley made a face, but when the sensation faded, it didn’t stop him digging his spoon in again. More cautiously this time, though. “It’s like a fancier version of those drinks they had at Nero’s party.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Oh, I remember them well. This is far better. Probably far cleaner as well.”

Crowley licked another dollop of sorbetti from his spoon and scraped at his now-empty bowl. “And tastier.” He hesitated, then reached over and stole another spoonful from Aziraphale’s bowl.

And not for the first time, Aziraphale shone like the divine blessed by rapture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cardinal's Steward released a book in 1694 which included the recipe for sorbetti :) Of course our angel loves sweet crisp iced fruit.


	31. 1721 - Suitable Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 5th Prompt - To dance on one’s grave

Crowley had to press a hand to his mouth when he saw the mausoleum, covering a choked laugh with a cough.

It was elegant, yes, but it also had more bereaved nudes carved all over it than the angel had ever seen in his life. The fact that some of the mourning nudes seemed to be needing to mourn in the company of… well… other nudes…

“He will be sadly missed,” a young fop said, clutching a kerchief to his breast. “He was a good and generous man.”

“Mm.” Crowley managed, lips pressed in a thin line to try and keep his face straight. “Mm-hm.”

“Too soon!” Another wailed, clutching at the arm of his fellow. “Oh why does the Lord take the best of us!”

It seemed to be a theme among the dozens of young mourners. Most were men, every one of them was lavishly dressed in clothes that were bordering on scandalously snug and revealing. A few of the ladies had selected near sheer linen as appropriate funeralwear.

“Did you know him well?” The man at Crowley’s side asked quietly.

“Mm.” Crowley nodded. “Most of our lives. Honestly, I’m amazed the stupid bastard made it this far.”

Several affronted gasps rang out around him.

“I mean,” Crowley continued, unable to help himself, “given how much he put it about, I’m amazed the clap didn’t get him _years_ ago.”

“Sir!” A puffed up little Duke stormed towards him. “How _dare_ you speak ill of the dead!”

“No different to how I spoke of him when he was alive,” Crowley said, his grin breaking onto his face. “Let me know if I guess right: you met him at an orgy, yes? Thought it would be a _fantastic_ idea to listen to his plans for that little caper down at Southwark?”

The Duke’s face went chalk white under his make-up. “Sir! You slander me!”

“Nah,” Crowley said happily. “Don’t think I do.” He leaned closer and tapped the young man in the middle of the chest. “You ought to mend your ways, Philip. The Lord is always watching you know.” He offered his most benevolent smile. “Confess your sins, lad, and all will be well.”

“AHEM!”

Crowley straightened up, schooling his expression before turning. A plump, very large-bosomed and veiled woman was standing immediately behind him, arms folded. “Madame.”

“Sir! Desist from distressing the mourners!”

She unfolded her arms, catching him by the arm and hauling him away around the side of the mausoleum. Crowley followed, but gave the whey-faced Duke a cheery wave, then tapped beside his eyes and pointed at him, before he was yanked around the corner.

The woman released his arm and even through the veil, he could feel the glare.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” he laughed. “What did you expect?”

Aziraphale shoved his veil back from his face. “I didn’t expect you to try redeeming my little bastards at my grave, you impertinent little bugger! I worked _very_ hard on the Hellfire club and now you’re undoing it!”

Crowley was shaking with laughter. “If it’s that easy to undo your work, you can’t have done a very good job of it.”

Aziraphale glowered at him. “I did _very_ well, thank you! Dozens of the little idiots dancing to my tune!”

“And they’re dancing on your grave now,” Crowley observed. “Been a while since I’ve seen you resort to the old fake-your-death routine.”

Aziraphale sighed hugely and hauled up his skirts to pull a flask from his garter. “I thought a martyr would do them good. A name to toast for the cause and whatnot.” He took a mouthful from the flask and offered it to Crowley. Never one to refuse a drink, the angel took a drink, hissing at the pleasant burn.

“You know,” he said, as he handed the flask back, “I don’t think that’s it at all. These don’t seem the types to like a martyr.” He leaned sideways, peering around the edge of the crypt and studying the mourners. One in particular caught his eye. Possibly because the young man was howling on top of the coffin. “What about Edward?”

Aziraphale gave a huffing growl. “Oh, _fine_. Yes. It’s because of Edward.”

Crowley sat down on a nearby headstone. “Enjoy yourself a bit too much?”

The demon made a face. “One time,” he said, then mimed a very particular gesture with one hand in front of his face, prodding his tongue into his cheek. Crowley’s cheeks burned. “You’d think I’d set the bloody stars, the way he carried on.”

Crowley had to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter. “Oh Lord…”

“Don’t.” The demon pointed at him.

“You actually _did_ it.”

“Crowley, I’m warning you!”

“You made a human fall in love with you!”

Aziraphale was on him in a blink, pinning Crowley to his body, his hand pressing over the angel’s mouth, which was probably a good thing, because Crowley couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Aziraphale hissed. “No love! No… soppy tender pure rubbish like that!”

Behind Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley nodded, grinning.

“No!” Aziraphale insisted. “Absolutely and definitely not! I didn’t! And even if you tried to tell anyone, they wouldn’t believe you, so it doesn’t matter what you think and you really need to stop laughing, you idiot!”

Crowley held up his hands in surrender, still chuckling as Aziraphale released him. “Methinks,” he said as he smoothed his waistcoat down, “the lady doth protest too much.”

Aziraphale opened and shut his mouth, wagging a finger, then huffed, “Don’t you use Hamlet at me, my dear. It’s neither funny nor clever!”

“S’accurate though,” Crowley said, wiping at his eye with a happy sigh. “Lord, I needed that.”

“It’s not funny,” Aziraphale grumbled.

Crowley gave him a look. “Really? You give a young human such a good…”

“Blow of the bagpipe?” Aziraphale offers, smirking.

“Yes.” Crowley coughs. “That and he literally sees Heaven and falls in love with you? And then you’re so awkward about it you –and I cannot emphasise how much I love this – fake your own death to avoid him. It’s kind of hilarious.”

One side of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched up. “It _was_ meant to corrupt him. Good pious little Anglican boys aren’t meant to get the… pure feelings from a good seeing to.”

“The Lord,” Crowley said with a bold attempt at a straight face, “works in mysterious ways.”

Aziraphale threw his veiled hat at him. “Oh, do be quiet, angel!”

“Madame!” Crowley feigned horror. “Uncovering your head! At a funeral? Shame on you!”

Aziraphale tried to glare, but his eyes were dancing. “Idiot.” He glanced sidelong. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Shall we…?” He jerked his thumb to the far side of the crypt and away from the funeral. “I only wanted to see who turned up. No need to sit through the lamentations.”

Crowley offered him the hat and his arm. “And wine?”

“Of course wine,” Aziraphale sniffed. “What kind of animal do you take me for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Crowley sighed as they moved off between the grave stones. “One who made a human fall in love with – ow!” He rubbed his smarting backside. “Aziraphale!”

“Not one more mention of the ‘L’ word,” Aziraphale sniffed, “or there shall be no wine.”

“Fine,” Crowley sighed. “Ruin my fun.” He leaned sideways. “Does this mean you’re going to sign off having sex with the humans, then? I mean… just in case it happens again…”

Aziraphale gave him such a horrified look that he burst out laughing again.

“Oh dear. Do you think I ought to take precautions?”

“Like what? Wearing a bag on your head?” Crowley patted his hand. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. One-off, that.”

“Oh, _good_,” Aziraphale said, relieved.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, fighting a grin. “I don’t think you’re _that_ good.”

“I _beg_ your pardon!”

Crowley smiled like an angel.


	32. 1794 - Afterthought

The rain was trickling down the back of Crowley’s neck.

His coat. He’d forgotten– hadn’t put on? Had he? He turned uncertainly. The cobbles were cold under his feet and images crowded in on him again, though they weren’t as bad as they had been. Still, he pressed his face into his hands, gulping breaths in, until they went away.

So opium. Definitely off the list. Right. Yes. Good. Good to know.

His throat ached and he tried not to touch. Too many miracles used to get out of Bethlem. Didn’t need to use more to patch up wounds inflicted by his own recklessness. It wasn’t bleeding at least. Just bruising. That was fine. It would heal.

He shivered, turning again.

Somewhere to stay. That was the important thing. Somewhere out of the rain. Shoes. Shoes too. And coat. And… and…

In his mind’s eye he saw it again. Much clearer than nightmares. Fucking opium. Opened up his senses even more than everything else. Vivid and real and every graphic detail. Surround sound. The smell of blood. Head bouncing. Not his. No. no, no, no. Worse than that.

Crowley folded over, throwing up on the cobbles.

The rain was getting heavier and he stared down at the mess.

Dark and cold. Needed to find somewhere warmer to stay. Out of the rain. Out of… out of the open…

Croydon was close, wasn’t it? Not too far? Only a few miles.

Dripping and shivering, he focussed his attention on that church, tried to move himself. His body – and everything inside it – ached in protest and he shuddered again, limping on in the direction of the town. Tried again, again, again, as he walked, until at last he moved and emerged on the steps of the church.

The door was locked and he sagged against it, trying his utmost not to cry. One small miracle wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just a little one, moving a tongue in a hasp.

In the silent damp of the night, the hinges creaked and he crept inside, closing the door behind him. The church was still and silent, cold as a tomb. He hobbled on aching feet through the vestibule, down the aisle, past the pews.

The moonlight turned the tiles bloody red underfoot, shining through the stained glass, and he shuddered, folding in on himself. The images were returning, thick and fast and dead and dying and blood all over and he couldn’t–

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, please, please…”

No one answered, if anyone was even listening, but his eye caught on a spark of gold, drawn away from darker thoughts.

Cloth. Cloth shot through with gold. Dry. Warm.

He limped as fast as his aching feet would allow. A cassock, abandoned over one of the pews, thick and heavy. Not much but more than cold and wet shirt and breeches and bare feet. He pulled it around him, curling up at the edge of the high altar.

“I’m tired,” he confessed in a trembling breath. “Please, I’m tired.”

Maybe someone heard or maybe he was just exhausted enough, because the world went quiet and dark around him, and on the steps of the altar, he fell asleep.

__________________________________

Aziraphale felt the shift in air a moment before he turned to find Crowley sitting at the table beside him.

“Twice in eight months? I must have been either awfully good,” he said, nudging the angel with a grin, “or terribly, terribly bad.”

Crowley gave him a watery smile. “Just checking in,” he admitted. “No… repercussions after the Paris business?”

Aziraphale shook his head, then scooped a portion of his dinner onto the side plate and slid it towards the angel. “As long as I’m causing mischief, they don’t mind.” He considered his cutlery, then dropped a spare spoon into the mess on the plate. “Do eat up, my dear. You look skinny as a rake.”

Crowley nodded, picking up the spoon and stirring at the warm morass of meat and potatoes.

Aziraphale took a moment to study him. He was uncommonly pale. Not unusual for the angel, but combined with the rings under his eyes and a rather nasty bruise running down the side of his neck, he didn’t look at all well.

“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, when the angel finally took a couple of mouthfuls.

“Hm?”

He hesitated, then lifted his hand to brush his knuckles lightly along Crowley’s throat.

Crowley recoiled with a hiss.

“An accident?” Aziraphale asked gently. Honey eyes stared at him and Crowley covered his throat with his hand. “You’re rather badly bruised.”

Crowley’s jaw worked and he nodded. “An accident.”

He was lying.

Aziraphale gazed at him, then smiled as if nothing was amiss. “Well, you know what is best for a sore throat? A fine brandy. Shall we find some?”

Crowley’s smile was a faint flicker of a thing, barely even a twitch of his lips. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t lower his hand at once. “Yeah.”

It was only much later, when he was happily tipsy, his arm propped on the back of a chair and his head lolling to the side that Aziraphale could make out the shape of the bruise. Darker lines at the edges of a narrow band. A collar. Or worse, a shackle.

More sherry gently tipped Crowley into dreamland and Aziraphale carried him – gentle as if he were a baby – to a room in the inn. He laid the sleeping angel down on a narrow bed, drawing a cover over him.

“Oh, my dear.” He smoothed Crowley’s hair. “What on earth has become of you?”

The angel made a faint murmur of sound, tilting his hand into Aziraphale’s touch.

Once, he had stayed, pinned in place and held and it was almost tempting to do the same now, but the angel wouldn’t thank him and he had no desire to cause him any further trouble. Still, he leaned down and pressed his lips tenderly to Crowley’s temple.

“Rest well, little darling,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

Crowley never stirred and Aziraphale shut the door silently behind him as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes on this one:
> 
> 1793 triggered some exciting new images in Crowley's nightmares. Very bloody ones involving guillotines and angels and a certain demon. He decided to try self-medicating with something stronger than alcohol. Opium was Not a Good Idea. Do not give an angel with PTSD and the knowledge of the universe anything psychotropic. It does not go well.
> 
> The Bethlem he mentioned was the asylum he was taken to after being found manic and hysterical in the streets. Bethlem was not a nice place. Violent inmates were frequently shackled to the wall with a collar around their neck attached to a pulley so they could be restrained like a feral dog and yanked back if they were getting violent. See frightened hallucinating angel on psychotropic drugs to imagine how bad Crowley was at this point.


	33. 1797 - Mad Hattery

If there was one thing that Aziraphale disliked, it was seeing Crowley’s mood brought low. It happened from time to time, often when he was called away to Heaven or there was a war to be dealt with. The messy business in France had been wearing on him particularly hard.

So, naturally, Aziraphale had decided it was about time to do something utterly ridiculous to cheer him up again.

“Isn’t this a bit… swanky for us?” Crowley said, doubtfully peering around at the buildings of the Strand.

“No such thing,” Aziraphale replied cheerfully, looping his arm through the angel’s. It said much for Crowley’s distraction that he didn’t immediately disentangle their limbs, his eyes flicking guardedly about the wide, elegant thoroughfare. “My dear, the aristocrats headed westwards some time ago. You’ll be quite fine.”

Crowley nodded, a quick skittish smile dancing over his lips. “True.” He slid his arm free of the demon’s and made a show of adjusting his austere black coat and cravat. “Why did you want to come to this part of town anyway?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “There’s something marvellous you simply _have_ to see.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow, wary doubt giving way to that lovely biting charm of his. “Well, now I’m back in scared territory.”

“Oh, hush!” Aziraphale put out his hand to stop the angel where he was. The shop that he had used as his particular jape was up ahead, across the road, and if he had timed things right, then they would see…

The door opened and Mr. Hetherington stepped out of his shop. Well… stepped was a rather understated term for the way the man bent double and inched out of the doorway, as if afraid of knocking his crown. Hardly surprising when he had a hat a good eighteen inches tall perched, gleaming, atop his head. It had been quite some time since so grand a headpiece had been donned by a gentleman of the city.

Crowley snorted. “Oh, you _didn’t_…”

Aziraphale gave the happy wiggle of a job well done. “Oh, I _did_.” He nudged the angel. “Isn’t it splendid?”

Crowley was shaking with muffled laughter, which was punctuated by an even louder snort when a woman on the street gave a shriek of horror and recoiled. More people turned and the ripple running down the strand was palpable. Profanities rang out and there were more screams and – to Aziraphale’s extreme delight – several women dropped like ragcloths, swooning at the sight, as if the man had bared his genitals rather than an unusually tall hat.

“You bastard!” Crowley choked, smacking him on the arm.

Aziraphale turned wide, wounded eyes to him. “It’s only fashion, my dear,” he said, one hand to his heart.

“My arse it is,” the angel said, his face breaking into that lovely, blinding smile. “You’re about as delicate as throwing a rock in a duck pond.”

Somewhere further down the street, a frantic mother was hurrying her children away, her hands over their eyes. A swarm of men was gathering, advancing on the unfortunate haberdasher who was proudly striding onward, quite as satisfied with his new and magnificent creation as Aziraphale was with inspiring it.

“I only pointed out,” the demon said primly, “that in times past, grand hats were the symbol of prestige and wealth in many cultures. Why should the ladies have all the fun with their ridiculous hair? We fellows need a little extravagance too.”

Both of the angel’s eyebrows were up and he was doing that charming little twitch of his lip which spoke of a desperate need to laugh aloud but trying very hard not to. “And this” – his voice was more than a little strained –“is proper demonic behaviour, is it? Getting humans to put on silly hats?”

Aziraphale looped his arm back through the angel’s. “I think it served its purpose,” he said cheerfully as several men had to hold back one of their number who was violently trying to remove the hat from the unfortunate haberdasher’s head. “Mark my words, they will be all the fashion in the coming century.”

“Course,” Crowley said, snickering. “Everyone’ll want to wear a bloody great chimney on their head. Who wouldn’t?”

Aziraphale sniffed haughtily. “I hardly expect someone as hopelessly unfashionable as you to understand the subtle nuances.”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley gave him another of those sunshine smiles. “I’ll make it happen if you keep this up.” He glanced at Aziraphale’s hair, then back at his eyes. “How’d’you feel about wearing a silk chimney?”

“Angel! You wouldn’t!”

Crowley just wrinkled his nose, gave him that mischievous little grin, then slipped his arm loose again. “You’d look _adorable_,” he said, then set off down the road, pausing to help up a couple of the downed women.

“Angel!” Aziraphale protested, bustling after him. “Don’t you even think about it!”

Honey-brown eyes danced. “Gonna stop me? Trying to thwart me?” He danced onwards, light on his toes, and oh, it made Aziraphale’s heart lift to see the return of that gleeful impishness.

Still, one had to maintain appearances. “Angel!”

And as women sobbed hysterically and the crowd swarmed the haberdasher and his offensive headgear, Crowley laughed and, for a brief, shining moment, all was right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Gneil entirely for this chapter. He retweeted [this post about the reaction to the first top-hat in London](https://twitter.com/uogmc/status/1210830249589641216) and immediately, I thought of demon Aziraphale.


	34. 1800 - Endeavour

“Ah, there you are, my dear!” Aziraphale rose, beaming, from the table. “I had hoped you received my message.”

Crowley snorted as he wove his way through the eaterie to join him. “I definitely got at least seven of them,” he said. “You didn’t need to send one to every church north of the river.”

Aziraphale waved a hand dismissively. “If you only had a fixed address I would have somewhere to send them, but until then, I will take my chances.” He hurried around the table to pull the chair out for Crowley and pushed it in for him when he sat. “I have some rather wonderful news.”

“Oh?”

The demon beamed from ear to ear. “I have just taken ownership of a _shop_.”

Crowley reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. “A shop?” he echoed.

“Mm.” Aziraphale gave a happy wriggle in his seat. “A small establishment in Soho. A perfect place to gather all my collection together _and_ to develop an entirely new kind of temptation.”

The angel grinned at him. “Your collection? You mean your etchings?”

Aziraphale’s smile turned naughtier. “Among other things,” he said. “It’s a gentleman’s prerogative to be an avid collector, don’t you know?”

“Of books, yes,” Crowley said, snickering. “Of plant samples, yes. Of snuff boxes, yes. I don’t think your collection would count as… gentlemanly in any way.”

“Ha!” Aziraphale raised his glass. “You, my dear, clearly have encountered very few gentlemen.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s _filthy_.”

“So,” Aziraphale replied, smirking, “are they. Where do you think I acquired much of my little collection? It certainly wasn’t Joe Smith at the docks or little modest Mary Wheeler in the mill, was it?”

“Point taken.” Crowley took a sip of his wine. “So a shop… does that mean you’re going to sell your precious collection?”

From the expression on the demon’s face, you would have thought the angel had said something vilely offensive about his non-existent mother. “_Sell_ it?”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Well, it _is_ a shop, isn’t it? People usually go to them to buy stuff.”

“Well, yes, but I hardly think I have to _sell_ anything!” The demon shuddered dramatically. “Ugh. No, no, no. That will never do.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “What else are you meant to do in a shop? If a customer comes in, you can’t just pretend it’s a museum and nothing is for touching or for sale or anything like that.”

A small twitch of a smile tugged at the demon’s lips. “I never said nothing is for touching,” he purred. “In fact, that’s rather the intention of the thing. After all, there is such a lack in torrid material these days. A man might give his right arm for a place where he can safely put his hand in his trousers without fear of recriminations.”

Crowley – who had wisely not taken a drink – set down his glass. He looked torn between amusement and disbelief. “You’ll let people…” He made a rather delightfully explicit gesture. “I mean, in your shop? Anyone?”

The demon grinned at him. “Not just” – he mimicked the gesture - “but anything their hearts desire.” He leaned forward with a lascivious smile. “I’m a most… accommodating shop-keeper, you see. Ready to… lend a hand.”

The angel had to look away, though his lips were twitching and his shoulders shaking. “Mm-hm.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, grinning. “I can’t help but feel you’re judging me, angel.”

“Admiring,” Crowley said in a mildly strangled voice. “Honestly, you seem to find every way to make your job easier. Now, you make the job come to you.”

“And for me,” Aziraphale agreed helpfully, smiling all the wider as the angel groaned. “You know I enjoy entertaining the humans–”

“And yourself.”

“Well, obviously, yes.” Aziraphale wave a hand dismissively. “This way, I can do both from the comfort of my own home.” He turned his focus to his wine glass, as though it were the most interesting thing in all the world. “You’d be very welcome to come and see it. If you like.”

A strange stillness spread over the table.

“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the angel said, suddenly as interested in his own wineglass as Aziraphale was. Those honey eyes darted across the table for a split-second, then back to the wine. “I mean, you said it yourself. It’s your… collection and I’m not– I don’t–” He flapped a helpless hand. “I shouldn’t.”

It wasn’t surprising, and yet Aziraphale’s heart still sank a little way.

“Understandable, of course, darling,” he said with the warmest smile he could muster. The angel had enough worries hanging over him. He didn’t need any more guilt to tie his poor mind up in knots. “But the offer stands, should you change your mind.”

To his surprise, the angel smiled, warm and genuine. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, bemused.

“The invitation. For… understanding why I can’t.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “I like think I’ve known you long enough to understand you at least a little, my dear.”

Crowley ducked his head with a small, crooked smile. “I think you have,” he agreed. He lifted his glass. “To your new endeavour, then?”

“To my new endeavour,” Aziraphale agreed, “and taking whatever… hardship comes with it.”

And to his utter delight, the angel groaned and kicked him in the shin under the table.


	35. 1825 - Gyroscopic Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt #10 - “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”- Edgar Allan Poe**

“Again?”

The corpse in the coffin cracked one eye open. “Sh,” it hissed, through tightly pressed lips.

Crowley leaned down on the edge of the open casket. “I’m _mourning_,” he said, trying very hard not to grin. “D’you want me to look like a half-hearted mourner?”

“D’put you in a coffin.” The corpse was doing a very good ventriloquism act.

The angel pulled out an oversized, rainbow-patterned handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud honk that echoed off the rafters of the drawing room, making the nearby steward jump. “Oh woe,” he wailed. “Woe! Such a brave and kind and good man! WOE THAT WE MUST SEE SUCH DAYS!”

“Angel!” Aziraphale growled from the coffin.

The angel beamed at him. “What are you going to do? You’re _dead_.”

The demon glowered at him, then snapped his fingers to freeze the world around them, and sat up. “What do you _want_?”

Crowley blinked in surprise. Aziraphale was rarely bad-tempered and never curt. Not with him. “Er…”

The demon scrambled out of the coffin, another snap of his fingers leaving a perfect replica of himself in the casket. He dusted himself down. “Well?”

Crowley took an uncertain step back. “I… er… we…”

Aziraphale – for once – didn’t tease or cajole the words out of him, staring blankly at him. “Is it something important?”

Crowley shook his head, knitting his hands together. “Sorry. I– I didn’t–” He retreated another step. “I didn’t think I–” 

Aziraphale’s flat expression softened and he sighed. “No, no.” He waved a hand. “This is me. Bad day, my dear. Some… happenings below. Needed to make a break of things up here. It’s all a little bit tense and…” He offered a tired smile. “Not your fault at all. You weren’t to know.”

Crowley’s iron-tense shoulders slumped. “Oh. Right.” He tried to summon a smile. “Sorry. Should’ve realised. Last time was–”

“Something else,” Aziraphale said. He glanced down at the casket, frowning. It was so rare to see the expression on his face. Worrying too.

“Is–” Crowley reached out, but pulled his hand back before it made contact. “Is something wrong? Can I help?”

The demon turned to look at him, as if realising for the first time he was really there. Emotions – too many for Crowley to parse – flitted across his face, then he smiled an almost convincing smile. “Only some excitement below. You know how they get from time to time.” He nodded towards the door. “Shall we? I doubt I’ll have any more busybodies coming to be sure I’m gone.”

Crowley nodded. “A drink?” he suggested.

“Rules will be open already.”

It was ten minutes away from the home of Aziraphale’s latest – and now late – human persona, but even so, they didn’t say a word as they walked. Aziraphale seemed lost in thought and Crowley found that all very worrying indeed.

Once they were seated and Crowley had taken the first mouthful of a strong, dark ale, he hesitantly asked, “Is there anything I – we should be worrying about?”

Aziraphale’s face creased in puzzlement. “We?”

Crowley gestured helplessly between them. “You know. Us. Being in trouble?”

“Oh! Oh, no! No, of course not, my dear!” Aziraphale reached over and squeezed his arm. “Oh, I should have made that clear!” He laughed and it was almost convincing. “Lord, no. Only all these prophets creeping out of the woodwork has a few people in a lather and when Hell is in a lather, the Princes and Lords spread it around.”

The prophets…

Oh, yes, there had been dozens since the turn of the century, all going on about one event in particular.

The End of Times.

Crowley took a fortifying mouthful of his ale, his heart thundering. Of course Hell would get excited about something like that. No wonder poor Aziraphale looked worried out of his mind, if all his superiors thought they were worth looking into.

They weren’t, of course.

Too early by far, even by generous mathematic estimates.

“So,” he managed to say, “nothing to worry about?”

Aziraphale smiled like a demon, all sweetness and lies. “Nothing at all, my dear.”


	36. 1855 – Scutari - Warmth

“Really?”

Crowley swung her feet back and forth, the toes of her black boots poking out from under her thick, heavy skirts. She was sitting on an empty barrel on the edge of a sprawling courtyard and that was where Aziraphale had stumbled on her some ten minutes earlier. “Mm-hm.”

Aziraphale took a ponderous suck of his pipe and exhaled the fragrant smoke into the crisp air. “Are you sure?” he asked after several minutes of thought.

“So I’m told,” Crowley replied, adjusting her skirt.

“But the woman is a vicious harpy!”

The angel made a face. “You know I can’t comment.”

Aziraphale scrutinised him, saying nothing. When the angel looked at him, he slowly and deliberately arched an eyebrow. When Crowley made an indeterminate sound of protest, he raised the other one and waited. Five ticks of the watch went by.

“All right, yes! She can be an unpleasant bastard of a woman if she doesn’t get what she wants when she wants it, but she’s doing good work!” She waved around. “Look at the state of this place! She’s trying to make a difference and you _know_ how hard that is for women.”

Aziraphale looked into his pipe. There were plenty of comments he could make about the type of people Heaven was gathering for their ranks. Especially the wealthy aristocratic ones who considered themselves so much better than everyone to begin with and spread judgement around as thickly as butter. The words felt stale on his tongue, though. It wasn’t – and hadn’t – been the best of centuries so far. Even teasing the angel had lost its savour.

The angel booted him gently in the knee, smudging his trousers. “Well?”

“Hm?”

“Isn’t this the part where you say something disparaging about Heaven?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned. “Well… I suppose they are playing to type?”

Crowley eyed him. “You all right?”

Aziraphale spread his lips in a smile that felt utterly unconvincing. “Of course, darling. Only you know how I deplore the messy business and… well…” He gestured around the courtyard of the building surrounding them. Ice crusted the parade ground of the barracks and even through the closed doors and shutters, the stink of human waste of all kinds was rank on the air. The place was hardly a glistening bastion of health and well-being. “The chill does little for me either.”

Crowley nodded. She had two layers of thick woollen shawls wrapped around her and tucked into her belt over the heavy-duty dress of the barracks nurse, her hair severely bound in a knot at the base of her skull. She hadn’t resorted to donning a habit, he noticed, even though that was an easy option.

“Never thought I’d miss London in winter,” she said, squeezing her hands between her knees. She knocked her foot against his knee again. “They do a decent coffee in the bazaars.”

“Aren’t you meant to be playing the good little role model for your gracious and gentle little nurse?” Aziraphale snorted, tipping his pipe and emptied the glowing ashes onto the ground underfoot. He tutted and for a moment, almost felt like himself again. “Running off to indulge in a coffee would be dreadful behaviour.”

Clearly, the angel thought so too, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Technically, I’ve done what I need to do,” she said, swinging her feet again, her heels drumming against the side of the barrel. “I wouldn’t mind getting warmed up a bit before I head onwards.”

She hardly ever invited, Aziraphale had noticed. Very strategically, she rarely invited, but she tacitly implied the outline of an invitation, making it clear that his overtures would not be unwelcome. And he, as ever, could never resist.

“You know what would be marvellous?”

“What’s that?” the angel asked, smiling.

“There is a rather wonderful hammam on the Golden Horn side of the city.” He offered her his hand. “They are always warm and you can guarantee good coffee and no damned nuns.”

“What a compelling argument,” Crowley laughed, slipping her fingers into his to leap down onto the frozen ground. It was only a brush of contact, but her skin was like ice.

“Oh, for Satan’s sake, angel!” Aziraphale rootled about in his pockets of his heavy winter coat. It was a magnificent beast of a thing, fur-collared and -lined and the perfect thing for a winter near the Black Sea. The gloves he produced were equally fine. He had commissioned them from a merchant in Buda when he had passed through some years earlier, and they were exquisite, with soft rabbit fur lining the insides and elegantly-embroidered dark brown leather outside, decorated in the pattern of a coiled serpent. “Here!”

Crowley looked nonplussed. “Your purse?”

Aziraphale gave a suitably dramatic roll of his eyes and caught Crowley’s wrist. He slipped one glove on, then demandingly held out his other hand for Crowley’s other hand. The angel ducked her head with a smile as the demon huffed and adjusted them, spreading his fingers between hers to tuck them all the way down.

“Happy now?” she asked, holding up both hands and giving her encased fingers a wiggle.

“Are you warmer?”

The smile she gave him certainly suggested it was so. “Getting there,” she replied, then to his surprise, tucked her arm through his. “Shall we go and scandalise some Turks?”

All the doom and gloom of the world, the wars, the diseases, then utter misery of everything that was going on, seemed to briefly melt away. Aziraphale patted her hand on his arm and, for the first time in what felt like a century, truly smiled. “I would be delighted.”


	37. 1865-1939 - London - Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt from tmifangirl21 on tumblr: ducks.

**1865 – St. Paul's Cathedral  
**

“You’re sure there’s nothing?”

The verger shook his head. The thin, red-haired man had come in before and picked up messages left by his friend. Several times in fact. Where the beautifully address envelopes came from, no one could be sure, but there hadn’t been one in quite some time.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Crowley,” he said gently. Like last month and the month before.

Mr Crowley nodded. “No. I–” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry. I thought I should check again. In case.”

“Of course,” the verger murmured. “Do you have somewhere I can forward them to? Should anything arrive? It would save you the bother of coming all the way down here every time.”

The poor man looked so bewildered by the question the verger wondered if he was quite well. “Forward them?”

“Your address, sir? We’ll send them on to you.”

The man’s face creased up with pained emotion, then just as quickly was twisted into another strained smile. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. I just come in when I pass by.” He turned his hat in his hands. “Thank you. For taking the time. And for offering. It was very kind of you.”

The verger nodded, watching in concern as the man walked as if in a daze, out of the nave and into the chilly daylight.

_______________________________________________

**1868 – St. James's Park  
**

“There’s something wrong with it, mama.”

Isabelle sighed, approaching the edge of the pond. “It’s a duck, Frederick. I’m sure it’s quite well.”

Her son looked up at her reproachfully. “No, it’s not.” He pointed to the sad bundle of feathers lying on the bank. There was very clearly something wrong with the poor creature, one of its white wings bent at a strange angle. “It’s hurt.”

That was as may be, but it wasn’t as if there was anything they could do with a wounded duck, save putting it out of its misery. There was probably some caretaker who would come along soon and do for it. Probably would have a roast duck for dinner come nightfall as well.

Her son, however, was trying to pick it up, making the poor creature thrash and screech in distress.

“Leave it be, Frederick!” she exclaimed, grasping his shoulder.

“But it’s hurt! I want to help!” he said plaintively, with all the simple logic of a child.

“You’re only making matters worse!” She pulled his hands away from it, which served the dual purpose of making both boy and duck cry out. “Freddie!” He kicked at her skirts and ran off, only to collide with a man standing a little way up the path.

The man had been standing there as they had entered the park and had barely moved in the fifteen minutes since, only turning now with Frederick’s mortified face staring up at him.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Isabelle said, flustered. “He’s a little upset.”

The man stared at her for a moment, as if he couldn’t understand, then crouched down to Frederick’s level. “Is something the matter, young man?”

Frederick nodded. “There’s a duck,” he said. “It’s hurt. Mama says I can’t help it.”

“Shall I help?” the man offered, straightening up and offering Frederick a thin hand.

Frederick nodded, pulling the man urgently back over to the little fence, where the duck was huddled, uttering small, plaintive sounds of pain. “I think it hurt its wing,” he said softly. “Can you make him better?”

“Freddie…” Isabelle said gently. An injured duck could hardly be miraculously healed.

The man knelt, reaching over the fence, and lifted the small white duck into his lap. It lay there, docile as a sleepy cat, snuggling its beak into the crook of his elbow, as he stroked a hand over the damaged wing.

“Just a little knocked,” he said a moment later, smiling a little as the duck got up and waddled off his lap, flapping its wings. “It just needed a little adjustment and it’ll be as right as rain.”

“He’s better!” Frederick crowed with delight. “Look! Mama! He’s better!”

And it certainly seemed to be the case.

Isabelle turned to thank the man, but he was already on his feet and walking away. And not a dozen paces behind him, the small white duck was following, little orange feet pattering on the path as it chased after him.

“I think it wants to say thank you, mama,” Frederick said, awed. “Because he made it better.”

“Perhaps,” Isabelle said, patting Frederick’s shoulder, watching as duck and man hurried away.

_______________________________________________

**1873 – Ditchling, The South Downs**

The man had something of a reputation as an eccentric in London, according to letters from her cousin. Some people called him the duck man, for wherever he went, he was accompanied by a small duck with creamy white feathers and a remarkably loud quack.

Ethel watched as the man walked along towards the hall where the latest debate was taking place, accompanied by his small, feathery fellow. How very odd that he – and his duck – had come to the town at all.

She hurried into the hall after them, both relieved and alarmed that there was a seat left and it was beside the peculiar man. The elders and deacons of several of the local churches were having a discussion again, over a point made by Master Fellows, which had been quite contentious.

He didn’t even glance at her when she sat. “Good evening.”

She eyed him, then the duck. “And you too, sir. And… er… your friend.”

It was strange, but the saddest smile crossed his face. “Ah. Yes.” He raised his eyes to her then and they were a golden-brown, the colour of fresh honey. “You know, most people pretend she isn’t even here.” He stroked a hand over the pale feathers of the placid duck and all at once, Ethel couldn’t understand the fuss about it at all. “I suppose they think I must be mad.”

“No odder than Mr. Darwin,” Ethel said. “She’s… she’s very tame.”

“Mm.” The gentleman scratched the top of the duck’s head gently. “She keeps me company well enough, don’t you, Zira?”

“Zira? What an unusual name.”

The man’s sad smile returned. “Yes. I named her after a dear friend of mine.” He laughed quietly. “I suspect he would’ve found it ridiculous.”

And suddenly, the sadness in his expression made all the sense in the world. “Or perhaps,” she suggested sympathetically, “he would be flattered. That you remember him, I mean.”

Those honey-brown eyes seemed to dismiss the rest of the world. “Thank you,” he said, so softly and sincerely, it was if she had blessed him in some way. And later, when she left the meeting, she couldn’t help but feel like a great weight had been lifted from her, one she hadn’t been aware she was carrying until it was gone.

_______________________________________________

**1891 – St. James’s Park**

The groundskeeper hesitated before approaching the gentleman on the bench.

The man was a regular visitor to the park. Sometimes, he would sit for hours, barely moving. Sometimes, he stood by the bank of the pond and fed a particular little family of brown and white patched ducks. Today, it had been the former, even when the lamplighters wove their way through the park.

“Sir,” Edward said carefully. “Begging your pardon, but the park is closing.”

The man glanced up then around, as if he hadn’t even realised where he was at all.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He unfolded, all lanky limbs and dusted down his coat. “Sorry. I didn’t realise the time.”

“It’s not a bother, sir,” Edward said, then, because he couldn’t help but wonder, “Are you quite all right, sir? You were sat there for quite some time?”

“Just thinking,” the man said with an unconvincing smile and shake of his head. “Thank you for letting me stay so long.” He started off down the path, then hesitated, glancing back. “Would you be able to do me a small favour?”

“That depends on the favour, sir,” Edward said carefully. Some of the gentlemen who lingered after dark had particular tastes and not all of them to Edward’s liking.

“A friend of mine sometimes comes here,” the man said, “but I think I must keep missing him. I was wondering… I mean, if you see him, you could let him know that I’d like to catch up with him.”

As requests went, it wasn’t as strange as some. “What does this friend of yours look like, sir?”

The man smiled more genuinely then. “About my height, but… portly. Blue eyes and fair curly hair. And he’s always very well-dressed. Likes browns and creams. You’d know him if you saw him.” A strangely hopeful look crossed the man’s face. “He hasn’t been around lately, has he?”

Edward shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed, sir,” he said apologetically, “but I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

The man nodded, small and sadder. “That’s what I thought.” He took a few more steps, then turned back again. “The ducks,” he said. “Perhaps a few more nesting boxes on the bank of the island would be a good idea.”

Edward glanced over at Duck Cottage Island in the dim gloom. It had gone neglected for a long while. He turned back to say as much to the fellow, but the man was gone, not even a shadow stretching to mark his path.

_______________________________________________

**1906 – Soho**

“Is there anything that you would like, sir?”

The man seated by the window shook his head. “Only coffee, thank you.”

Victoria returned with his order a few moments later, setting the cup and saucer down on the table in front of him. He was still staring distractedly out of the window at the rain lashing along the street, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, before she could walk away.

“Yes, sir?” She reached for her order book automatically.

“Have you worked here long?”

Victoria frowned. Usually, those kind of questions turned in uncomfortable directions. “A few months now, sir.”

He nodded, then looked back out of the window. “That bookshop across the road. Do you know if it’s been open lately?”

Victoria glanced through the window, then flushed an ugly shade of red. “I’d hardly know something like that,” she snapped out, turning and scurrying away. Honestly, the filth some men would ask about, as if she would be interested in something like that.

Only when she was safely back behind the counter did she look back, startled to see the man was as red as she was. He slapped down a bill on the table and all but ran out of the café, disappearing out into the rain-drenched street.

“What on earth was that about?” Mary asked, peering after him. “He didn’t even touch his coffee.”

“Good,” Victoria said, vehemently. “We don’t need dirty buggers like that in here.”

“Ahh.” Mary winced. “That bloody book shop again?”

“Mm.” Victoria made a face. “Filthy, the lot of them.”

_______________________________________________ 

**1914 – Saint-Yvon**

“Here.”

Ludwig glanced over his shoulder. He had been thinking of home and Lise. “Hm?”

The skinny, red-haired soldier was holding out a candle. It brought to mind the advent wreaths and Christmas trees and singing together. “It’s the season for it,” the man said softly, smiling as Ludwig took the candle.

Others along the trench had them too.

One by one, the red-haired soldier gave each of them a candle. More than they had had for a long while, white and sturdy, even with the flames flickering and dancing in the wind.

A few men wedged theirs into the upper rim of the trench, tiny stars in the darkness and somewhere further down the trench, someone started to sing. It was ridiculous, Ludwig thought, cupping his candle close to him, warm and bright, but another voice joined the first and another, and he was smiling and so were the other men.

And quietly, as if he had never been there at all, the red-haired soldier slipped away.

_______________________________________________

**1934 – London**

“As you can see, it’s a beautiful piece of engineering,” Peter said, though he had a feeling that the customer didn’t hear a word he was saying. “Fresh on the market only a few months now. We’re expecting several more next month.”

The man nodded distractedly, circling around the car. Occasionally, he put out a hand and touched it with a reverence most people would only reserve for holy objects. He hardly looked like the type to drive such a car, but then it was growing more and more difficult to tell with the economy being all topsy-turvy and rich and poor finding themselves on even terms.

“I’ll take her.”

“Sir?”

The man turned, fixing Peter with those peculiarly intense eyes. “The car. I’ll take her. Now. Today. How much do you want for her?”

Peter’s mouth opened and shut. “Well, it’s– I– there’s a waiting list, you see, sir.”

And the skinny rake of a man in his threadbare suit and unfashionable hat pulled out a wallet and a thick wad of notes. Peter’s eyes bulged at the number of them and the figures written on them. The man peeled off far, far too many, shoved them into Peter’s hand, and before Peter could protest, he climbed into the car and started the engine.

“Sir!”

The man looked up at him. “It’s all right, Peter,” he said, so gently and persuasively that Peter knew at once that he was right. “All the paperwork is sorted out. You’ve done a good job. Keep two of the notes. Commission.” And he flashed a brilliant smile and that was all Peter could remember as the car swept out of the showroom, never to be seen again.

_______________________________________________

**1939 – London**

The streets were quiet, but that wasn’t surprising. Everyone would’ve been glued to the radio, listening to the official announcement.

Crowley drove and drove, his mind going a mile a minute.

War. They were at war again.

He could remember the last one all too clear, the cold and wet and dark burn of all of it. The trenches where a misplaced foot could slip through the carpet of corpses. No Man’s Land, where ragged scraps of flesh and shard of bone had rained down as heavily as the bullets.

He’d seen war before, so many, many times, but last time was different. It was bigger and more brutal and merciless and _quick_. Oh, Lord, it had been so quick, the wave upon wave of the dead. And now… now, they were going to do it all over again with two decades worth of technological advances.

The steering wheel of the Bentley was pressing bruisingly into his palms, but he didn’t care. Didn’t even notice where he was going or when. His eyes were burning already and God, he wanted to go and get drunk and… and…

And of course, because of bloody course, he found himself driving along Shaftesbury Avenue, turning right, into Soho, into the familiar streets and stopping right outside that stupid, stupid idiot’s stupid bloody shop.

He slapped his hands against the steering wheel, biting his tongue to keep the profanity in.

Why did he have to be gone now? Why? _Why_? He couldn’t be oblivious to the wars, could he? He couldn’t have just… what? Slept through them? Could he? Or was he somewhere else? Doing God only knew what?

Wars were bad enough. Wars were awful. But worse was sitting alone in the dark afterwards, with nothing but the bottle and the blood. God, he wanted to have someone beside him, someone to share the bottle and talk away the blood. That’s how they’d done it before. That was what he _wanted_. To have someone who would tease and laugh and drive off the dark, creeping thoughts that smothered as much as the gas in the trenches.

He wanted…

He wanted to put a brick through the bastard’s window. He wanted to scream and rage and do… _anything_ a human could and would do. He wanted… he wanted…

“Come back,” he whispered. “Please. Come back.”

And again, just as it had been for the last eighty years, silence was the only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case y'all wondered what Crowley was up to during the estrangement.


	38. 1880-1941 - Remorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 21 - Guilt**
> 
> Warning - slightly more mature and dark chapter this time.

**1880 – The Hundred Guineas Club, London**

“Lord, Angelique!” Thomas panted, clutching at the divan beneath him. “You– you are damned–”

The man calling himself Angelique pressed his hand over Thomas’s mouth, stifling him. “No more words,” he growled, as his body moved over Thomas’s with a fervour and heat that made Thomas keen in both pleasure and pain.

When he spent himself, Angelique stepped back at once and uttered a low sound of disgust. “Get out.”

Thomas scrambled up off the low bed, flushing, no doubt as red as his hair, his body still crying out for release. “I beg your pardon.”

Angelique didn’t look repelled, but neither did he look as once who had taken his pleasure ought to. He rubbed at his brow and waved his other hand towards the door. “Off with you.”

Thomas stared at him, then down at himself. “You’re done with me?” he demanded, offended.

Angelique’s pale eyes ran over him, then the man stepped closer. For one who looked so cherubic, there was something sinister in the curve of his lip. “My dear boy,” he murmured, “I could play with you until you screamed for mercy.” He brought his lips close. “I could torment you until you begged and pleaded for release…”

Thomas shivered. There was no warmth in those words, no pleasure. It sounded more threat than teasing promise.

Angelique’s lips drew back from unnaturally sharp teeth. “Get. Out.”

Thomas backed away from him, skirting around the edge of the room to the door that led out into the rest of the club. There would be other men, he thought, shaking. Ones who were not so… so… whatever it was that Angelique was.

At the door, he glanced back.

Angelique had sunk to sit on the divan, looking infinitely tired and ancient. Thomas hesitated, wondering if he should offer some kind word or comfort, but it was as if a chill was rippling outwards, turning the room to an ice box and he retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.

____________________________________

**1884 – Belgium**

The fight over the continent was heating up. The damned Portuguese were trying to claim land rights by way of outdated and irrelevant treaties, while the French had snuck in under the guise of exploration and planted a flag.

With a little nudging, Bismarck and his associates at the forthcoming Berlin gathering ought to provide the support needed to push matters back in Belgium’s favour.

Leopold scowled down at the map. “I will have it.”

“Of course you will.” His attendant was pacing in ever narrowing circles on the far side of the room, his pale hair tipped with gold in the gaslight. There was something predatory in the way he moved, the curl of his back, the flash of his eyes. “You and your… philanthropic missions.”

It struck Leopold that he could not recall when Monsieur Raphael had come into his service or how the man had come to be so knowledgeable of Leopold’s own affairs. “You sound doubtful of my success.”

“Ha!” Raphael ran a hand along the mantle. “Let’s not mince words. We both know there is nothing humanitarian about your intentions in the Congo basin.”

And yet, Leopold thought, the other members of the International African Association had been convinced of it easily enough. “You think you know so much, Monsieur? You think so little of my plans?”

Raphael made a disparaging sound. “I know you have no intention of ceasing the slave trade. But isn’t it useful? They’ll let you go in and be so helpful, won’t they? And won’t it be marvellous, they’ll say. What a generous and gracious King. And all the while, you’re hoarding up land and resources for yourself.”

Leopold eyed him. Some of his people knew of his intentions, but none would speak so boldly of them. “And what do you think of it all?”

Raphael whipped around, reminding Leopold of naught so much but a serpent. “What does it matter what _I_ think?” he snarled, stalking across the room towards the map table. “You can do what you damned well please, you stupid man.”

“How _dare_ you address me so,” Leopold snapped back furiously.

Raphael, his hands braced on the edge of the table, raised his eyes from the map. They were solid blue, no white at all, the pupils slit like a serpent’s. He smiled, but it was unlike a smile in every particular but the shape. Alarming enough to make him back away.

“You know what you want to do, your _Majesty_,” he hissed, leaning out over the table. “What the Hell do you need me for? Permission?”

Leopold stared at him, then down at the map. “I _will_ have it,” he repeated. “By _whatever_ means I must use.”

Monsieur Raphael’s smile widened, his teeth like needlepoints. “I’m sure you will,” he growled, the lamplight flickering. He extended one hand and, with a single finger, overturned the figure of Leopold on the map. “And we will be waiting when it’s done.”

“We?” Leopold echoed.

Serpent eyes stared at him. “Oh, you’ll know.”

And between one blink and another, it was as if… no one had ever been there at all.

_______________________________________

**1892 - London**

“Savage little ruffians, aren’t they?”

Oscar shifted on the couch, trying very much not to pay heed to the man seated beside him, but the man it seemed was having none of it. Against the ragged feigned grandeur of the room, his neighbour was a diamond among rocks, his clothing of exquisite cut, the very richness of the fabric a lush field of deep golden brown.

“The one on the left.” The heat of his breath sent gooseflesh rising upon Oscar’s skin. “I imagine he would turn you on your belly and have you spent in moments.”

For all that he wished the man to be silent, it was as if he had reached into Oscar’s mind and plucked the very thoughts dancing tantalisingly there. Bosie knew of his covert desires and had found a rather handsome gaggle of young men, strong and broad of shoulder, narrow of waist. Handsome creatures, but untamed by conversation and literature and utterly primitive in the most delicious ways.

It was… unseemly.

A step too far and he knew it well. It was one matter to seek the pleasures of the flesh with a like-minded man, but to buy their favours was something less innocent and edifying. He would finish his drink, thank them for their patience and be on his way.

Oscar took a fortifying sip from his goblet, the wine heady and strong. “If you do not mind, sir, I am only here at the behest of a friend. I shall be leaving shortly.”

The man’s arm unfurled along the back of the couch like a serpent uncoiling along the branch of a sycamore, the weight of it heavy with sin and promise. “We both know that’s not true, don’t we, my dear?”

Abruptly, a hand broad and warm pressed against the front of Oscar’s breeches.

“Sir!” Oscar snarled, though his hips canted rebelliously into the firmness of the touch.

“Tell me to stop,” the man murmured against his ear. “Tell me that this is utterly unsuitable. Tell me you would not want me to have you ready and bring one of those … lovely creatures over to tend you with his lips.” His tongue curled into Oscar’s ear, wicked as the snake of Eden, ripe fruit held within reach. “All you need to do is _tell me_.”

Would that he were a stronger man. Would that he had not held such wishes at arm’s length for decades of misery. Would that he had not grasped the man’s hand and urged it betwixt fabric and flesh, urging him to take hold and do as he pleased.

“You want them, don’t you?” the man whispered, his hand far rougher than any gentleman’s ought to have been, knowing and firm and utterly relentless upon him.

“Sir…” Oscar gasped, the wine glass shaking in his hand.

“Call one of them over, my dear,” his… friend purred, as though offering a fine delicacy in the most elegant of salons and not selling the flesh of young men for shillings in a room so gloomy and grey that no gentleman should ever have set foot there. “The dark one. Marcus, I believe.” Hot breath, like sulphur, poisonous and smothering, whispered on his skin. “He has a _marvellous_ mouth, my dear. Utterly wondrous.”

“Marcus!”

The lad on the far side of the room leapt up like a wildcat, striding across the room, plump lips spread in a smile.

The glass slid from Oscar’s fingers, shattering into a thousand pieces, scattering like stars on the dark wooden floor beside the couch. Wordlessly – for what place had words on lips like that? – he motioned to the front of his breeches.

The boy knelt as a pauper to a king and his neighbour slipped his wicked hand free as the boy nimbly unfastened the buttons of Oscar’s breeches. Lord, his purse would weight every touch if he allowed it. He ought to refuse, to demur, to, to, to…

“I–” His words seemed utterly spent, tangled and useless.

His neighbour chuckled, catching the boy’s chin in his hand. The boy’s dark eyes fluttered closed with greedy pleasure as the man’s thumb pressed between his lips, rounding them out beautifully, his tongue curling and lapping furiously.

Oh.

“Watch him, my dear,” the gentlemanly neighbour murmured withdrawing his hand. His other hand stroked through Oscar’s hair as the boy lowered his head and closed those plump pink lips around him. Oscar pressed his feet to the floor, his hips moving wantonly, but he could not look, not when there was no feeling, no passion, no…

“Oh, but of course there is,” his neighbour said softly. “Look, my dear. See how much he enjoys it.”

The boy’s dark eyes met his, limpid bright pools, as his head bobbed and dived, eager as a kingfisher for a fish. His hands moved too, rough and firm, well-practised and shamefully skilled. It took hardly any time at all.

Mutely, Oscar reached out, catching a heavy silken hank of dark hair. The boy grinned at him, leaning up into him, and his mouth was as eager to please in every particular, salted yet sweet, and twice as hungry.

____________________________________

**1900 – Paris**

The wind rattled the windows in their frames, the shrill of it like a blade sinking into the throbbing cavity of his skull. Oscar turned his head against the pillow, trying to muffle the sound as best he could, but even that small motion felt like the efforts of Atlas.

The room was cold again, though he could see the fire was burning. Strange, then how cold he felt. Numbed at the hands and feet, the chill spreading inwards from his extremities. So very bitter and painful.

He closed his eyes for a time and the lancing pain behind his eyes eased.

Beside him, the edge of the mattress dipped under the weight of another. He lifted his weighted lids, expecting dearest Robbie, but finding another face, a terrible and familiar face, close to his side.

The fair man with the fleet of beautiful brutes, the ones who had spilled his secrets as easily as they made him spill his seed.

In another room, in another lifetime, he would have risen in a rage, cutting the man to ribbons with words. In another lifetime, the bone-deep cold would not have been sapping what little strength he had, leaving him little more than a restless shell, too weak and drawn to move.

“Sir,” he breathed.

The man turned his fair head to look at him and the grief and despair carved in the furrows of his face spoke more eloquently than words could. “Oscar.” A broad hand found one of his, closing about it, and some little warmth spread through him, dulling the icy ache in his limbs. “You– I–” The man’s hand tightened on his, the words catching in his throat like a piece of stale bread. “This ought not to have happened, dear fellow.”

No, Oscar thought, unable to draw his eyes from the man. Gone was the ardent sensualist, all louche manners and predatory lips. He seemed like another man entirely, hollowed out and spent. “You… incited…” he breathed.

The man bowed his head. “I did,” he said in an unhappy breath. “I– indulgence should not be so condemned. Desire– wanting someone– having someone who wants– who will give you all–” His voice wavered. “What is so terrible in it?”

Oscar’s eyes welled with unsolicited tears. “Nothing,” he whispered, clasping the fellow’s hand. “Nothing at all.”

The man made a low sound like a wounded animal, folding over their joined hands. What had he lost, Oscar wondered, to bring him so low?

“You should have been happy,” the man said, so soft Oscar could scarcely hear him. “To have what you desired, to be with the one you chose, to… enjoy your life. You _ought_ to have been happy.”

“Life,” Oscar murmured, “is not so generous.”

The man lifted his face to stare at him. “Life is nothing, my dear fellow. Life did not do this to you. _They_ did this to you. The ones who believe themselves better and right and _good_.” He pulled Oscar’s hand to his breast, holding it there. “Would that I could save you.”

“A charming thought.” Oscar’s head fell back heavily against the pillow. “Alas, it comes too late.”

“Too late,” the man echoed. All at once, his other hand was beneath Oscar’s head, cradling him gently and his eyes as blue as polished turquoise filled Oscar’s world, blazing like the lightning-torn sky in a storm. “Then have what they will not allow you…”

It was as if his mind was flooded with visions, of rainbows and men embracing other men openly, of a marriage ceremony with no bride, of banners with his words held proudly by people defiant and glorious and _free_.

Tears streaked hotly down his face. “What is–?”

The man drew him close and radiant wings, ephemeral and shining, wrapped around him, driving the pain and the cold away. “The world to come, my dear,” he said softly. “You will be remembered and you will be remembered well.”

_______________________________________

**1914 – Vienna**

“You should go, your Highness.”

Franz Ferdinand looked up from the letter in his hand to the mirror and the man standing behind him, clipping his hair. “Your opinion is not required.”

The man – Samuel, was it? – bowed his head mildly. “Your pardon, your Highness.”

The Archduke ignored him, turning his attention back to the letter in his hand. It was one of the many threats that had been lodged against anyone of the Habsburg house who dared to visit Sarajevo. Not unfamiliar. They received them often enough from the provinces.

He set it down, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair and glowering at it.

His Uncle’s people were all up in arms, insisting it was a serious threat to the crown. The Governor of Sarajevo insisted it was nothing. All blustering and shouting and none of them saying anything useful at all.

“Your Highness’s wife will be disappointed, I think.”

That made him turn. “What did you say?”

Samuel widened peculiar blue eyes, clutching his hands before his chest. “Nothing, your Highness.” He licked pale pink lips and hesitantly said, “They want you to go as a show of military strength, do they not?”

How a barber had come by such knowledge, Franz Ferdinand did not know. Servants, he supposed. They saw everything and no doubt reported it on to one another, whispering and scurrying like mice through the walls of the Hofburg.

“And what say you of my wife?”

Samuel blinked guilelessly at him. “But… surely your Highness knows that his wife would be able to accompany him?”

Franz Ferdinand stared at the man.

At every turn, protocol and propriety stymied him, preventing Sophie from standing by his side where she ought to have been. But of course, if he was not there on Imperial matters, but on military matters, then as a highly-ranked officer, he had the right to take his wife with him if he so desired.

He turned back, riffling through the papers, drawing out the order of events. The date was so close to the anniversary of their wedding, he noticed. They could make a day of it, defy those who would refuse Sophie her rightful place. For once, he could proudly walk by the side of the one he had chosen to love.

Behind him, he barely even noticed the door closing as the barber slipped away.

________________________________

**1917 – Passchendaele**

The rain was torrenting down, cold and miserable.

Albert shifted sideways to allow another fellow to squeeze into the narrow space that remained under the frail gantry. It was not much in the way of shelter, but it was better than standing underneath the pelting sky.

“The orders have come. We’re going over the top.”

Albert glanced over, chaffing his hands together to warm them, his stomach churning.

It was the order he had been dreading for days and weeks now. He had somehow, mercifully, avoided the charge in the past, but the Germans were pressing back and it was becoming more and more vital to reclaim Ypres.

“When?” he asked.

“Soon as the rain lets up,” the messenger said. “Be ready for the signal.” Then he slipped back out into the rain, his footsteps muffled by the mud.

As soon as the rain stops.

It was a damned awful thing to know that the weather turning would be the moment of your death.

“Damn,” he said quietly, squeezing his hands together so hard that they ached.

There was a chance, though very slim, that he might survive. Fellows had come back from the charge before, though often they were in a terrible state. No Man’s land was still littered with those who could not be retrieved. It was – if he was lucky, if God had mercy – not a death sentence.

If things went badly…

“Does anyone have paper?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’d rather like to write a letter.”

An unhappy chap in the corner raised his head. “A letter? What good is a letter going to do?” he demanded bitterly. “The moment you put your head over the edge, that’s the end of things. A bit of paper is hardly going to save you.”

“Sir!” One of the other man snapped.

Albert studied the man in the corner. Not someone he had seen before, but he looked as ground down and utterly miserable as the rest of them. “If I can give my wife some little comfort for the future, then I shall,” he replied. “If I’m lucky, I shan’t have to send it, but if not, then I’d be happy to know she had some little word of assurance.”

The man stared at him. He had very peculiar eyes.

“For your wife,” he said slowly. “D’you know that the love of a wife was what got us all here? How damned stupid, to think that it matters at all! It shouldn’t have come to this!” He shook his head. “It’s all for _nothing_. Why waste your time?”

The poor bugger looked as though he were about to burst into floods of tears.

“All the same,” Albert said, “I would rather know she had a moment of happiness, no matter how little, if I can grant it.”

“Even if you’ll never see her again?”

“Especially then,” Albert said stoutly. “I prefer to leave her with my affections than with dust and ashes.”

The man stared at him for a long time, then reached inside his uniform and pulled out a sheaf of miraculously pristine paper. He hesitated, then took one sheet for himself, and handed the rest to Albert. Other men were watching, listening, and looking. What manner of man would he be if he didn’t offer them the same chance?

For a time, the only sound in the dugout were the scratches of pens to paper over the rattle of the rain on the metal overhead. Gradually, the pens trailed to silence and, little by little, so too did the rain.

The fair man in the corner rose, walking to the entrance of the dugout and staring out.

“You shouldn’t go,” he said. “None of you.”

“We must,” one chap said, rising and reaching for his helmet.

One by one, they rose, picking up their gear. Albert hastily finished scratching his letter, then folded it up tightly and tucked it snugly into the depths of his uniform. He bent to pick up his helmet, then paused. A piece of paper lay where it had fallen, tramped on by boots. He picked it up, glancing about for its owner.

It was only a couple of lines, scrawled in a shaking hand.

_Dearest Angel. I miss you. I’m sorry. I asked too much of you._

There was no name, no sign of who had written it.

“Are you going?” The fair man was standing in the entrance, watching him. “You don’t have to.”

Albert smiled sadly at him. “I rather think I do, old boy.” He joined the man in the entrance, looking out at the thinning clouds overhead. “I suppose they’ll get our letters home for us, won’t they?”

“You can take it home yourself,” the man said.

Albert looked out at the trench and the wire and in the distance, he could hear the whistles and shouts and the crack of gunfire. “God willing, yes.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “Best we get under way.”

“Yes,” the man said sadly, walking out after him. “Under way.”

_________________________________

**1941 – Soho**

Much was made of animals retreating to their holes to lick their wounds.

Aziraphale could quite understand the appeal.

For close upon a decade, he had not left his shop. In fact, he had barely moved at all, spent and drained and unable to ignore the chasm he had crafted between himself and the one person who might have cared about him.

No, there was no room for illusions. There was no ‘might’.

Crowley was created to care and care, he did. Too much, one might say, a perfect counterpoint to a demon who could not care less. Cared so much, in fact, that he would rather risk their lives than kill.

In hindsight, Aziraphale felt like a fool.

Of course Crowley – good, kind, merciful Crowley – would never want any part in a plan that would leave blood on his hands. He was not a creature made for guile and brutality. Of _course_ he would never have acceded to a plan to kill Aziraphale’s fellow demons.

Alas, by the time that thought sank in, Aziraphale had spent decades wreaking merry Hell across the continent, urging people to indulge their every whim and enjoy themselves while the world spun ever closer to oblivion. Outrage, spite and indignation were a powerful motivator.

And of course, because the Almighty’s humour was of a bitter kind, his every intervention had turned so terribly, terribly wrong. Deaths, disgrace, brutality. Even the war – the first of two now, it seemed – had been credited to him. Commendations and celebrations and awe had followed and he had smiled and smiled, then retreated to his shop and drunk himself into a stupor.

A little credit went a long way.

They had stopped requesting reports. No doubt, they thought this latest carnage was his doing as well. Which meant he no longer had to leave the shop, so he… didn’t. He ignored the knocks at the door. He certainly ignored the pulsing presence of an angel in a café across the road.

Lord, if Crowley recoiled so hard from him at the thought of killing a demon, the thought of his expression when he heard of Aziraphale’s dealings since their last encounter… so many people. So many of his beloved humans. Not intentionally, but that hardly mattered, did it?

So Aziraphale sat. Dust settled on him like a mantle. He had no need to move. He had no desire to move. Perhaps, like the myths of old, if he remained where he was, he would turn at last to stone.

For several days, he had watched in silence as letters slipped through the door and a touch of a miracle followed them, turning them to ash before they touched the floor.

Crowley, approaching but not. Hesitating.

If a letter fell, if it was left intact, then and only then would he move.

It seemed the thought was enough to change reality, for only two days later, another letter dropped through the door, the same size and shape as those that had fallen into ash only days before.

Aziraphale’s body ached as he unfolded from the chair, dust sloughing off him. He crossed the floor and bent, snatching up the letter. He had never seen Crowley’s hand, but the bold precise letters seemed unlike him.

He frowned, breaking the seal. Crowley had been the one to destroy them, which begged the question as to why. The answer was clear enough in the scent of the letter. It reeked of malice and ill-intent, though it was nothing more than an order for books from a gentleman called Harmony and a request for a meeting over some more specialised items.

And yet Crowley had been intervening with them?

Aziraphale turned the paper over in his hands, considering it. It was entirely possible that his angel was trying to keep him from dangerous sorts, but Crowley was… well, frankly rather hopeless when it came to such things. A cell in a French prison came acutely to mind.

He folded the letter up, tempted to reduce it to ash with its brethren, but…

But, damn it all, Crowley was interfering in matters that likely didn’t concern him and no doubt had no idea of the kind of people he was toying with. _The very least I can do_, Aziraphale thought, _is make some discreet inquiries of these men. See if I can’t find out what’s what._

He went to his desk, dismissing the dust with a snap of his fingers, and opened out a fresh page of paper. His ink had dried up, but refilled at a look, and he sat down and wrote a polite, moderate response to the mysterious Mr. Harmony, suggesting that a meeting would be an agreeable possibility.

The angel need never know.


	39. 1941 - Interference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompt #8 - Usurp

People were always people. Some could be capable of greatness. Others…

Well, others weren’t.

Crowley watched the two men from across the room, unnoticed.

He’d seen them outside Aziraphale’s bookshop. Not that he was watching the bookshop. Not that he was worrying himself sick about the fact that no one seemed to have seen hide nor hair of the demon in decades. Not that he was such a regular fixture in the nice little coffee house across the road from the shop that they kept his seat reserved for him on a daily basis.

But yeah, he’d seen them and he’d recognised the sort at once.

Free will was great. What people chose to do with it? Not so much.

This pair were looking for information. Not military or political or anything like that, but it could still be useful in the right – or wrong – hands. And the trouble was that Crowley knew exactly what they were looking for and where it was. Everything on their little list could be found in a single place.

Eighty years was a long time.

Maybe Aziraphale had cleared out some of his inventory since then. He’d certainly cleared plenty of other aspects out of his life, a rather lost and hurt angel one of them.

He wasn’t–

He couldn’t be–

No. He was fine. He was out there, being his usual, stubborn self. He had to be. It was the only thing that made any sense. The shop was still there after all. If he– if anything had happened to him, the shop wouldn’t have been left alone for so long. Some businessman would have snapped it up. Prime property was a valuable commodity.

Which led to another kind of fear. If these… gentlemen went poking around, if they found Aziraphale, Crowley honestly wasn’t sure what the demon would do. He’d been behaving so strangely for months before the – their last encounter.

Which meant the only choice was to ensure that they never managed to make contact with Aziraphale.

He kept eyes on them and when one of them dropped discreet notes off at Aziraphale’s shop, he was the one to make sure they were dust and ash before they even hit the floor. If they wanted information, then he would make damned sure they wouldn’t get what they were looking for.

Even if it meant tempting them in another direction.

And that very evening, he sat and wrote a message, an offer of something far more valuable than anything that a purveyor of filth could provide. His heart was in his throat as he wrote, his hand unsteady.

For the first time in millennia, he put his name – his true name – to paper as he offered them the last known copy of the _Sefer Raziel HaMalakh_. Lord, he hoped it would be worth it.

Two days later, he received two responses. One came in the form of a note from his targets, inviting him to meet. The other appeared at the door of his current lodging with a scarlet smile and a discreet gun under her coat.

“Rose Montgomery,” she said, offering her hand. “I believe we have some business to discuss, Mr. Crowley.”


	40. 1949 - Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompt #7 - Silence

The envelope hadn’t come with the morning post, but Aziraphale definitely hadn’t seen anyone deliver it. There was nothing written on it but his name in a very practised copperplate hand. Not Ezra Fell or any of his human aliases. His own name.

He turned it over curiously. Good quality envelope and sealed with a smudge of something that looked suspiciously like candlewax. He sniffed it. Beeswax candles at that. Pretty useless for sealing things, as a rule.

He slipped one finger under the fold of the envelope, lifting it open and withdrawing the folded piece of paper.

At once, his expression brightened. Crowley! So the darling little rascal wasn’t as adverse to words as he always claimed. And an invitation too…

It was only a few lines but by the bottom, the elegant copperplate had turned into little more than chicken scratchings. A street name and number and – Aziraphale had to admit his heart gave a peculiar little flutter – a drink to celebrate the angel’s new home.

Oh, at _last_!

He had watched Crowley flit from place to place, taking refuge in churches, synagogues, mosques and temples, never finding anywhere that was his alone. He had tried to gently encourage him to at least try putting down roots, to stop exhausting himself by his incessant dashing about, but there was something in the angel that always seemed ready to run at a moment’s notice.

On the date and time on the invitation, he picked out one of the finest bottles he had in his collection and hailed a cab to take him east.

As they neared, he frowned, staring around.

There was something awfully familiar about the streets, but it wasn’t until they pulled up at the address that he realised exactly where the angel had invited him to.

He climbed out of the cab, staring up at the restored tower of a church he had reduced to rubble with a deftly-placed German bomb. The place where his eight-decade long estrangement from his angel had ended. The night Crowley had saved his books.

The creak of a gate drew his attention. Crowley leaned self-consciously against the wrought iron rails, and gave him a little wave. “You found it all right, then?”

“I– yes.” Aziraphale looked from the angel to the church. “This– you said it was your new home? Here?”

A blush spread across Crowley’s cheeks and he shrugged. “I can be a bit sentimental too,” he said, pulling the gate wide open. “Do… d’you want to come and see what I’ve done with the place?”

“Of course!” He beamed.

It didn’t matter that it was a damned church. If need be, he could stand in the doorway and look in. If it was what the angel wanted, he was more than happy to do so.

Crowley’s face lit up and he beckoned him in. Unsurprisingly, Crowley’s dove-grey Bentley was parked at the far end of the yard, though much of the ground looked as if it had been churned up by dozens of feet in recent days.

“I didn’t realise it was still standing,” Aziraphale said, following the angel towards the doors of the building.

“Not much of it was,” Crowley said, glancing back, “but I was passing a couple of years ago and it – I couldn’t just leave it to be torn down. He paused at the doors – one of them was painted bright bottle green, the other only half-finished. “Now, don’t laugh, all right?”

Azirahale clutched his heart in feigned shock. “Would I?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Loudly and frequently.” He pushed the doors open and stepped inside into a small, snug vestibule. Stairs led off to the right and vanished up into the tower, and to the left, a paint-stained pair of overalls were hanging on a peg. “Coming?”

Gingerly, Aziraphale stepped across the threshold, then stopped short. “Oh!”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “It’s not a church anymore,” he said. “D’you really think I’d invite you somewhere consecrated?” He wandered into the hall, calling back, “Why would I want to live somewhere you couldn’t visit?”

For the first time in many a year, Aziraphale was lost for words.

He hugged his bottle of wine to his breast and followed the angel into the former church. It was like a flicker of a moving picture, Crowley standing at the far end, looking back at him, as he had been that night.

But it was all different now.

The pews were gone, cleared away, and only the beautifully-restored shell remained. The ceiling arched upwards, curving like the inner prow of an old Viking longship, hung with lamps. The walls were all repainted in soft shades of cream and yellow, and beams of afternoon sun cut through the crenelated windows, bisecting strips of light and shadow on the pale stone floor. A few tables were arranged near the walls and at the far end of the building, there appeared to be a small raised dais where the altar once stood.

No furniture, though, he noticed.

Crowley was waiting by the stage, a nervous, but proud look on his face. “I have an event happening here tomorrow night,” he said.

“An event?” Aziraphale found echoing easier than gathering his own scattered words.

“Mm.” The angel nodded, turning and looking around. “I mean, I still have some work to do, but it’s for a charity ball and I thought it would be a nice way to give it back to the people. I’ve even got a band coming in and we’re…”

Oh Lord. Of course he would do that, the silly, loving darling.

Aziraphale smiled helplessly as the angel excitedly pointed out where he would be putting additional flourishes, and the lighting plans he had and oh, would it be too much to put a fancy carpet outside? Maybe? Probably not. Special occasion and all that.

“Well?” Crowley said finally, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, unable to keep himself from chuckling, “that I’m not surprised. So it’ll be a what? A social club? An event venue?”

Crowley shrugged, hugging himself happily. “Both? All! Whatever they need it for, they can hire it and use it and whatever.” He was positively glowing and Aziraphale had a feeling that anyone who came into the proximity of the hall would pick up on it.

“And when it’s not being used, you’ll live here?” Aziraphale inquired. “I must admit I do like the fact you’ve chosen to settle in London.”

Crowley ducked his head with a bashful smile. “Actually, not just when it’s not being used.”

To Aziraphale’s utter astonishment, Crowley caught him by the hand and pulled him through a small door that opened at the back of the church, beside the stage. It led out into the grounds, closer to the Bentley, and there was another building. It was a round, one-storey building with a high pointed roof and windows interspersed along the wall.

A chapter house, Aziraphale wanted to say, but all his brain could focus on was the sensation of warm angelic fingers squeezing his, tugging him onwards.

Crowley’s pace quickened the closer they got to the building, almost as if he feared he might stop if he slowed down. Perhaps he would have, had his mind had the chance to raise a hand in inquiry, but as it was, he trotted along rapidly, hauling a speechless demon with him.

The chapter house door was open and as soon as he crossed the threshold, the angel dropped Aziraphale’s hand to clasp his own. He gave Aziraphale a quick, nervous smile. “S’my house,” he said. “I’m going to live here.”

It would be absurd, Aziraphale thought, for a demon to get weepy at an angel saying such a simple thing. Truly absurd, for a creature from Hell. “Oh, my _dear_…” He began and then ended, because, if it was absurd for a demon to get weepy, it was certainly ridiculous for their voice to break with emotion.

“S’not much yet,” Crowley added, clearly relieved to have gotten the big reveal out the way.

It certainly wasn’t, not by Aziraphale’s comfortable standards, but it had a couch big enough for an angel to lie on and a small table in front of it. He spotted a few potted plants tucked in the south-facing window nooks and some small shelves were in the process of being filled with small trinkets and ornaments.

He approached, gazing down at them. Several them were wonderfully – anciently – familiar. “You kept that silly brooch I gave you,” he said, touching the very pin, stolen from Elizabeth I’s own costume, because it’s honey-brown colour so perfectly matched the angel’s eyes.

Crowley shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t get many presents,” he said, but there was a hint of mischief in his voice as he added, “Especially not presents nicked off a Queen.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes, but not at all in guilt. “Oh, my dear, you weren’t meant to know about that!”

Crowley’s small smile broke into a warmer grin. “It was a guess!” He spun on his heel, digging around in a crate behind the door and emerged a moment later, with a triumphant, “Aha!” He held up two wine glasses, still half-wrapped in protective tissue. “We need to toast!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You didn’t wait long for that.”

“Waited long enough for a house-warming,” Crowley responded cheekily, shaking the paper loose and setting the cups down on the table. He beckoned his hand demandingly. “Wine!”

The demon obligingly popped the cork out of the bottle and handed it over. It was a rather nice red, rich and fruity, and Crowley made a sound of approval as he poured. When he set down the bottle, he snatched up both the glasses and held one out to Aziraphale.

“What shall we toast to?” Aziraphale asked, letting his fingertips ghost against the angel’s as he took the glass.

Crowley ducked his head again, the smile warm and happy. “To a home?” he suggested.

“To a home,” Aziraphale agreed, lifting his glass.

The angel sipped his wine, then said quietly, “Aziraphale.”

“Yes, my dear?”

Honey-brown eyes met his. “Thank you.”

Not for the first time this evening, Aziraphale was wrong-footed. “Whatever for?”

When the angel smiled at him, every thought vanished from Aziraphale’s mind. “For helping me to find it.”

And rather than risk an embarrassingly weepy incident, Aziraphale could only smile and raise his glass again in silence.


	41. 1956 - Assurance

“What on earth are you doing?”

Crowley peered up over the edge of the bonnet. Aziraphale was standing on the far side of the Bentley, a bottle in one hand and a quizzical look on his face. “Giving her a polish,” he replied, waving a wax covered rag at the demon. “Need to keep her looking her best.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed even more. “You’re… rubbing it? Is that necessary?”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” Crowley said without thinking, then ducked his head, grinning as his cheeks burned. It had taken them a while for the good humoured ribbing to creep back in to their conversations, but now, it was almost natural again.

“Ah!” Aziraphale sounded pleased. “You’re in one of those moods.”

The angel unfolded from behind the car, giving it a last smooth stroke as he straightened up. “Accidentally,” he said, tucking the rag into the pocket of his overalls.

“Couldn’t you just…” Aziraphale made a flourish with his hand.

Crowley winced, trying to imagine how well Heaven would take a miracle like that. “A bit frivolous,” he said and Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Anyway, I like doing it. It’s kind of meditative, once you get started.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale eyed the car doubtfully. He held up the bottle. “I found a rather nice red, if you fancy it.”

Crowley couldn’t help smiling. “You know I always do.” He waved towards the bench. “Park yourself. I’ll go and get some glasses. I think I’ve got some pork scratchings as well.”

For all that Aziraphale declared himself a connoisseur, he still never said no to a bag of the cheap snacks. Sprawled out on the bench, he happily tucked into them as Crowley poured them both a glass of wine.

“Not sure they’ll go with it,” Crowley said, offering him the glass.

Aziraphale waved a crumb-coated hand. “Only if one is picky.” He took a sip of the wine. “The charred pork certainly accentuates the hints of rosemary.”

Crowley snorted. “You talk such bullshit sometimes.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest in shock. “_Me_?”

Crowley made a face at him, then stretched out his legs, heels dragging furrows in the gravel. It was a nice evening, the sun just heading towards the horizon, shadows stretching in along the expanding garden.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said several minutes later.

“Hm?”

“Before you got this place, where on earth did you park that beastly contraption of yours?”

Crowley glanced at him, puzzled. “How’d’you mean? It’s a car. When you stop it by a road, it’s parked.”

Aziraphale flapped a hand. “No, no. I know you had it in 1941, but officially, they tend to like to have an owner with an allocated address. I mean, you weren’t…” He was frowning again. “You… you didn’t _sleep_ in it, did you?”

Ah.

“Sometimes.” Crowley shrugged, peering into his wine glass. “Sometimes, just parked it outside wherever I holed up for the night.”

“Oh, my dear…”

Crowley gave him a small smile. “Not like you have to worry about it anymore, eh? Got this place, don’t I? You’d have to winkle me out with a pin to get me out of here.”

“I will tear the legs off anyone who tries to make that happen,” Aziraphale said, with enough of a growl in his voice that Crowley ducked his head to hide another smile. “Don’t laugh! I’m quite, quite serious.”

“Oh, I know.” Crowley glanced at him, smiling. “Softie.”

Aziraphale puffed up. “How dare you.”

Crowley leaned a little way towards him. “As butter in the sun.” And purely for mischief, he gave the demon his most wide-eyed, innocent look. “I’m very grateful.”

Aziraphale deflated like a balloon. “Oh shut up,” he grumbled, barely hiding his own smile. He took another drink, then waved towards the car. “How long have you had it anyway?”

“Since 1934,” Crowley replied at once.

He’d seen one driving through the streets of London and had fallen head over heels at once. The owner must’ve thought he was half-daft, chasing him down the street and yelling at him to stop so he could find out what it was called and where he could get one. But he’d done it and he’d got one and she was his now.

“I… I was going to bring her by to let you see her,” he said carefully. This was something they still danced around, as if there were knives or broken glass or something else that could cut them to ribbons between them. “In 1934, I mean. But the shop…”

Aziraphale’s expression was as if shutters had come down. “Ah. Yes.”

“I didn’t know,” Crowley continued cautiously, “if I would be welcome.”

Aziraphale stared down at the glass between his hands, turning it first clockwise, then anticlockwise. “Then, it’s probably best that you didn’t come,” he finally said. “It was… an unhappy time.”

For both of them, Crowley thought. God, he’d hated those years with no one to talk and laugh and drink with. And now, he hated them even more to know they’d both been so miserable and hurt and the scars were still there, raw for the poking.

“Ah,” he said. Non-committal. Not pressing. No need to do that. Would only make things worse.

“Mm.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched in a sad smile.

Crowley watched him. How bad must it’ve been if it could still turn Aziraphale all sad and small like that? He looked like he was folding in on himself but now, they were back together and he didn’t _need_ to be sad or worry about anything like that, all the times that had been bad and wrong.

The angel scooted along the bench, closing the distance between them.

Aziraphale didn’t move, but he noticed. He always noticed stuff like that.

“You know,” Crowley said, gently nudging Aziraphale’s elbow with his own, “I picked her because I wanted something loud and ostentatious to keep me company.”

Blue eyes slanted towards him and the demon laughed quietly. “Oh, my dear…”

“S’the truth,” Crowley said, the epitome of wide-eyed virtue. “Only the truth.”

This time, when Aziraphale smiled, it creased around his eyes. “I know.” He reached over and clasped Crowley’s hand in his own. “Thank you, my dear.”

And, for once, Crowley turned his hand and let their fingers fold together. He didn’t know which of them needed it more, but with the shadow of those empty years behind them, he knew that both of them did.

“Shut up and drink your wine,” he said, “you big soft lump.”

And for the first time in ages Aziraphale laughed.


	42. 1959 - Lights

The hall was far too busy for Aziraphale’s liking, so he loitered in the courtyard once he had giving the angel a firm mental tap to catch his attention. It was crisp outside, the air cold and the garden rimed with frost already.

He had his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his coat when the door creaked and he heard the crunch of Crowley’s tread on the gravel.

“All right, Aziraphale?”

He turned with a smile. “Only thought I would pop by. I can come another day if you’re busy.”

Crowley groaned. “Oh! I forgot to tell you about this, didn’t I?”

“A little, yes.” Aziraphale chuckled. “One of these days, you’ll put out a newsletter and I’ll be able to learn about your little good deeds like everyone else.”

Crowley’s eyebrows arched. “You know, that’s a good idea.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest. “Satan preserve me! A _compliment_?”

“Not to you,” Crowley snorted, grinning. “Shut up.” He nodded towards the hall. “You can come in, if you fancy it. We’re… oh… wait. That might not be a good idea.”

“Dare I ask?” He leaned sideways. “Good Lord, angel. Are you wearing a skullcap?”

“It’s Hannukah,” the angel replied. “Some of the local Jewish kids asked if they could have a little celebration in the hall, since we did Ramadan earlier in the year. I asked around and a couple of Rabbis agreed to come along and now…” He gave a happy shrug. “Everyone gets to see a bit of everyone else’s religion. Education and tolerance and cake. All good in my eyes.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You really are ridiculously soft, angel.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Hang on. Hannukah. Isn’t that the one with the candles?”

Colour flared on Crowley’s cheeks. “Yeah, and?”

“Based on that incident when they miraculously didn’t run out of oil?”

“Um. Yes.”

“And when I say miraculously…”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. “Mm.”

Aziraphale stifled a laugh behind one hand. “Weren’t you… hanging around in Jerusalem at that point?”

“I was living in the temple, all right?” Crowley said, throwing up his hands. “Yes, I was there! How was I meant to know they’d notice someone had used up all their oil? What was I meant to do? Come clean? Whoops! Sorry! Thought you were busy with the occupation, so I used it to keep myself warm!”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched helplessly. “And so, eight days from one jar?”

The angel flapped a hand. “It– that– I– it only seemed fair. Amount I’d used up. Gave them time to get some more in.”

Aziraphale glanced towards the community centre. “You going to give them a factual and historical account of the event? About the thieving little bastard of an angel who stole their holy oil?” he said, then burst out laughing when the angel kicked him in the shin. “Ah, that would be a no, wouldn’t it?”

“Shuddup,” Crowley grumbled, folding his skinny arms over his chest.

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, they were right about the miracle element, weren’t they?” He gave the angel an encouraging smile. “Probably the holiest oil they ever had, thanks to you.”

Crowley reluctantly grinned. “Yeah. S’pose.” He glanced back at the building. “Look, I’ll be free in about half an hour, if you have time to wait. I can bring you some latkes and some sufganiyot if the kids have left any.”

“I can make a little time,” Aziraphale agreed. “The chapter house?”

“Course,” the angel said happily. “The door’s open. You know where to find the wine and things.”

Aziraphale watched him trot back into the hall, then meandered his way along to the chapter house. As promised, the door was open, but then – despite everything that had happened between them and who and what they were – it had _never_ been closed on him.

He stood on the threshold, looking back along at the community centre, lights and laughter and warmth flooding out.

That was the angel through and through, he thought with a small smile. Opening his door to anyone and everyone, never turning anyone away. Soft, silly, wonderful creature that he was.

And the fact that he remained so, despite the harshness of the world… that was the true miracle.


	43. 1963 - Guidance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 11 - Shiver**

_Raziel of the Book,_

_Destination: Moscow_  
_ Target: Ilya Denisov_

_The target has been planning an extermination. Provide encouragement towards his goal, attend the extermination. Anticipated result: 77% increase in faith immediately with further growth anticipated in forthcoming decade. Spiritual or physical intercession to be provided as deemed necessary._

_Michael_

___________________

The streets were slick with ice, the bitter winds cutting down from Siberia.

Ilya cupped his hands around his cigarette and lighter, sparking a flame. The smoke curled, hot and bitter, into his lungs.

His target was seated in a bar across the street, laughing and drinking with a cadre of young men Ilya knew to be corrupt. They brought in… items from the West, though no one could prove it. They had help and though his superiors doubted it – some even doubted the man’s very existence at all – Ilya knew his target was their source.

He was known by too many names, seen in too many places, familiar with the wrong sort.

Ilya shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shivering against the cold, and pressed back in the shadows of the alley.

It was not an official order. He had voiced his concerns and his superiors at Head Office had said, with a wave of their hands, to deal with it. Ilya dealt with many problems for them. This one was a problem they didn’t even believe they had.

Through the misted windows, he saw his target rise, meandering towards the door.

He blew out of a feather of smoke and flicked the glowing end of the cigarette away, arcing through the air like a comet and landing with a hiss in an icy gutter. One hand closed around the switchblade in his pocket, the other around the small vial his grandmother had given him.

He pulled it out, rolling it across his palm. Water, he assumed. For luck, she’d said. A blessing. He’d laughed, but sometimes, with someone as slippery as this man, luck – a blessing – whatever it might be was only a good thing.

The job would be done. The certainty wrapped around him like a mantle. He would finish it and it was the _right_ thing to do. He’d never been so certain of anything. He closed his hand around the vial and pressed his lips to his knuckles. The blessing – luck – would work.

The door of the bar swung open, pale light cutting across the sparkling street, and his target stepped out into the light.

Wrong. _Wrong_. This is wrong. To do this, to the man…

Ilya hissed. No. This was the right thing to do. Cut off the supply lines. Get rid of the trouble-maker once and for all. He took a step forward and froze at a grip like iron on his arm.

A man, pale, red-haired, bare-armed and furious, drew him back. “No.”

Years of familiarity with No moved Ilya’s hands of their own accord. One beneath the ribs. One to the face. The red-haired man was spilled on the filthy cobbles. Ilya turned and took less than half a step, his body wrenched back.

Panic forced the breath from his lungs, his limbs defying his struggles, locked and rigid and motionless.

“I said,” the red-haired man snarled behind him, “_No_.”

Ilya tried to swear, but couldn’t. It was as if his body had turned to stone, and through no will of his own, his feet dragged him backwards, deeper into the dark of the alley. The red haired man was standing now, shadows cutting across his face, his eyes invisible.

“You won’t touch him.”

“Fuck you!” Ilya gasped out. His muscles burned with effort, trying to lunge, to fight, pain blazing through him.

The man tutted quietly, wiping his own chin with long, thin fingers, which he held out into the light. Blood gleamed there, but not like any blood Ilya had ever seen. It shone like polished metal, the colour… wrong. Not red, but… but shimmering like gold and flame and–

What the fuck was he?

“I think,” the man said in a voice that should have belonged to a gentle woman, soft and kind, “you need to learn a lesson, Denisov Ilya.”

Fuck!

How did he know him? This stranger in an alley who walked in winter, bare armed and shoeless?

“You want to know what I am, don’t you?” The light from the street was behind the man, his face lost in darkness, except the sharp curve of his smile. He lifted his bloody hand and Ilya fought harder, but the grip on his body tightened. A single bloody fingertip pressed to his brow. “Look and _see_, Ilyushka.”

A thousand eyes and wings as dark and brilliant as starlight flooded his vision and blinded, dazzled, terrified, Ilya Denisov screamed.

______________________

A choir of children were singing in the church when Michael stepped out of nothingness and into the mortal realm.

They paused, giving the church a look with fresh eyes. No. Not a church, not any longer. The sanctity had been wiped away some time ago, but the walls were imbued with righteousness and angelic influence, which was enough.

“Raziel,” they murmured in a voice like the threat of thunder.

Several moments later, the door of the building opened. Raziel stared out at them, then emerged onto the path, walking stiffly towards the Archangel. He was – unusually – dressed very finely, even his wild unruly hair tamed. Not, Michael thought, for them. For the humans. Interesting.

“Michael.” Raziel folded his hands before him and bowed his head. “This is… unexpected.”

Michael inclined their head. “We’ve received some information about the results of the Moscow job.”

Raziel was pale by the yellow glow of the nearby street lights. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Michael smiled. “We were expecting an improvement of 77% at best, but instead, Denisov is on his way to becoming a holy man.”

Raziel’s mouth dropped open. “He… he is?”

“Oh yes. It’s quite remarkable, really.” Michael gazed at him, expression placid and neutral. “I wonder what it is you did to make him turn so drastically to faith.”

The other angel shrugged, shifting from one foot to the other. “Might’ve done a bit of… manifesting to encourage him,” he said self-consciously. “Nothing big.”

“Manifesting,” Michael echoed. “Interesting.” Manifestations had fallen out of fashion recently. It seemed humans were a lot more alarmed by other humans than things they could dismiss as tricks of the eye or hallucinations. “Effectiveness may depend on the subject, I suppose.”

“S’pose.” Raziel fidgeted. “Thought I’d give him a bit of a push. Glad it worked.”

Michael nodded. “Keep up the good work, Raziel,” they said. “It’s very impressive.”

The angel nodded, ducking his head. “Yeah. Will do. Thanks.”

Michael walked back towards the gate, then paused, listening to the choir. “Your work?” they asked, unfurling a hand towards the church.

Raziel looked at the building, then nodded.

Michael smiled. “I think She would approve.” They turned and before Raziel could say anything more, they were gone.


	44. 1984 - Just Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley made a face at the ceiling. “More persistent property developers. They really want to buy the church.”  
“Ah.” The demon winced. “Yes, they do seem rather… pushy creatures. I had some making noises in the shop. Commenting on how flammable to books would be and how tragic it would be, if something were to happen to them, if I didn’t sell to them.”  
The angel tilted his head to squint at the demon. “I don’t think those were property developers,” he said.  
“No?”  
Crowley’s lips twitched. “Sounds more like the mafia or something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from Rocket-pool on tumblr: For Inverse art or words... Y'know those fic where unsuspecting customers run into a snek in the canon bookshop? That, but demon!Aziraphale, possibly in the community center. Because you know he'd be a fuck off big snake...

Crowley, unusually, threw himself down at Aziraphale’s feet on the couch, dropping his head against the back. “Ugh.”

Aziraphale lowered his glass of wine, eyeing the angel. Normally, it took at least a bottle and a half before the angel deigned to descend from the arm of the couch. “Is something the matter, my dear?”

Crowley made a face at the ceiling. “More persistent property developers. They _really_ want to buy the church.”

“Ah.” The demon winced. “Yes, they do seem rather… pushy creatures. I had some making noises in the shop. Commenting on how flammable to books would be and how tragic it would be, if something were to happen to them, if I didn’t sell to them.”

The angel tilted his head to squint at the demon. “I don’t think those were property developers,” he said.

“No?”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Sounds more like the mafia or something.”

“A shark by any other name would circle the same way,” Aziraphale said with a dismissive wave. “Threats, bribes. It’s six and half a dozen.” He prodded the angel’s hip with his toes. “Would you like me to scare yours off too?”

“Nah.” Crowley smiled. “I can handle some yuppies.” His smile turned mischievous. “I asked them if they wanted to hear the word of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. I was _very_ enthusiastic. I even offered to pray with them and quoted the camel and eye of the needle thing.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course you did.” He offered the angel his glass. “I think you need this more than I do.”

Crowley took it gratefully. “How did you get rid of yours?”

The demon’s irises expanded, turning his eyes solid, gleaming blue and he grinned, elongating his teeth to sharpened points, a forked tongue flickering between them.

The angel snorted. “And that was enough?”

“For the first batch,” Aziraphale replied, reaching over to claim the bottle of wine from the table. “From the sounds of it, they were considered craven at best and mad at worst.” He took a generous mouthful from the bottle, then smacked his lips. “It’s astonishing how much the boldest gun-toting rogue will scream when confronted with a rather large snake.”

“Rather large.” Crowley echoed, lips twitching. “Understatement there.”

The demon wrinkled his nose. “I kept it under thirty feet this time.”

The angel considered him thoughtfully. “You know what…” He shook his head. “Nah. Never mind.”

Aziraphale prodded him firmly with one foot. “You know I hate it when you don’t finish a question.”

Crowley made a face at him. “The kids in my gardening club like creepy crawlies. I’m borrowing a few from a guy who helps with gardening supplies so we can do a class on them. I was thinking they’d probably _love_ to see a giant snake.”

“One large enough that it could plausibly eat them?” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “My experience of small children suggests they can be alarmed by things that could eat them alive.”

“Well, it’s not like you _would_.”

The demon grinned widely. “Are you sure, my dear? I do have a baby-eating demonic reputation to uphold.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, right. The only thing you eat raw is seafood.”

“And steak, occasionally!”

“My mistake.” The bloody angel was grinning at him. He wriggled around on the seat, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “D’you fancy it? Being my glamorous snakey assistant?” He laughed around a mouthful of wine. “I could carry you around on my shoulders, if you went small enough.”

Aziraphale had been in the process of refusing, but paused. Wasn’t often that the angel invited physical contact and he wasn’t about to refuse the opportunity. “How small are we talking?”

The angel stretched out his arms as wide as he could, then frowned at them. “Long,” he clarified. “Big enough to go around me, I think.”

“I always knew you wanted to wrap yourself up in me,” the demon said with a wicked grin.

Crowley knocked Aziraphale’s knee with his own, though he was clearly fighting a smile. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Says the angel asking me to be his glamourous reptilian assistant?” The demon tilted the wine bottle towards him. “Name a time and a date, my dear, and I’ll be there with scales on.”

_____________________________________________

Eight days later, Crowley ferried a frog back into one of the borrowed tanks.

Unsurprisingly, the poor little sod was rigid with terror and no wonder. The twelve-foot long Boa constrictor draped around Crowley’s shoulders had done a pretty good job of terrifying everything into placid compliance. Nothing had escaped or even tried to run away.

The kids were delighted.

“And the last thing we have,” Crowley said, reaching for the final tank, “is Hector the tarantula.”

The dozen kids all leaned close with an awed “ooh!” as he lifted the spider out of its tank, its hairy feet tapping across his spread palms. A few of them were even bold enough to reach out and carefully pat the spider’s back.

“Does your snake eat spiders, uncle Tony?” Michael – a snub-nosed boy of seven – asked.

Crowley considered Aziraphale’s diamond-patterned head. “Probably,” he said. “He eats _everything_ that I know of.” The snake poked Crowley’s cheek with his nose in tangible indignation. Crowley laughed. “Oh, shush. You know you do.”

“Does he speak English?” Sofia asked.

“I’d say so,” Crowley confirmed, “but we can talk about the snake later. First, let’s talk about Hector…”

He was only halfway through his mini-lecture on the spider when the door of the building opened and he groaned inwardly at the sight of the same two men in suits again.

“If you don’t mind,” he called up the room, “we have classes today. Please come back another day.”

“Mr. Crowley.” The one who called himself McAllister ignored him and strode down the room. “We’ve come to make you another offer. You’d be a fool if you didn’t take it and I can–”

“Leave?” Crowley suggested. “Like I said, I have classes today. I’ve told you I don’t want to sell–”

“They’re buying the centre?” Angie turned an anguished look on him. “But I have my dance lessons here!”

“No–” Crowley began.

“But we like it here!” Jason agreed.

All at once, a dozen panicked young voices were overruling him and Crowley glared at McAllister and his partner. A nudge against his cheek made him look sidelong. Aziraphale gave a pointed yawn, showing his long fangs, and jerked his head in the direction of the men.

Crowley smiled slowly.

“If you’ll give me five minutes to calm the children down,” he said. He replaced Hector in his cage, then lifted Aziraphale down from his shoulders, setting him down in the large basket on the floor. McAllister’s partner retreated a cautious step. “Kids, let’s go out into the garden, all right?”

“Er…” McAllister’s partner was rapidly inching away from the snake. “Are you sure that shouldn’t be in a cage?”

“Oh no,” Crowley said with wide-eyed innocence as he chivvied the distressed throng of children towards the doors. “That would be inhumane.” He gave them a sunny smile. “Don’t worry. He’s a big soft silly. Wouldn’t harm a fly.”

Outside, he urged the children down to the rockery, getting them to sit around the small waterfall.

Maybe it was unnecessarily cruel to leave the two yuppies at Aziraphale’s mercy, but… well, Crowley _did_ have responsibility for the kids and he _did_ need to calm them all down before dealing with anything. If the two arrogant humans happened to be in a room with a demon because they wouldn’t leave when he politely asked them, it wasn’t _his_ fault, was it?

“Don’t worry,” he promised, offering hugs where needed and shoulder pats where wanted. “I’m not going anywhere.”

From inside the church, there was a blood-curdling scream and he had to force himself not to smile.

“What was that!?!” Angie clung to his hand.

“I don’t think the men liked Hiss,” he said. “Shall we go and check?”

She nodded. “It’s stupid to be afraid of Hiss,” she said severely. “He’s _only_ a Boa. He’s not even proper poisonous.”

“Venomous,” Pasha corrected, grabbing Crowley’s other hand as they walked back up the length of the garden. “Snakes’re venomous, aren’t they, uncle Tony?”

“That’s right,” Crowley said, smiling. He could hear the wails and pounding on the door of the church. Oh no. Someone – or something – had locked the doors. How sad. “If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous. If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

“What if it bites itself and dies?” Mandeep demanded.

“Then it’s stupid,” Sofia declared.

Crowley laughed. “Maybe a bit,” he agreed, then untangled his hands from Pasha and Angie’s to reach for the door handles.

The doors swung open at his touch and McAllister and Partner reeled out into the daylight, looking considerably less polished and smug than they had. The partner bolted for the gates and Crowley could hear him throwing up in the street outside.

McAllister turned a wild-eyed look on the angel. “What the f–”

“Ah!” Crowley wagged a finger sharply downwards, snapping off McAllister’s profanity. “Not in front of the children.”

“Th-there are laws!” McAllister squawked. “Having something like _that_!”

Crowley peered passed his shoulder. “Are you talking about the spiders? Or the lizards? Or Hiss?”

“The snake, you idiot! The f–” McAllister’s word trailed to a wheeze. “The f–” He grabbed at his throat, staring wildly. “What the h–”

Crowley inclined his head with a politely concerned frown. “Something wrong?”

“Hey, look! Hiss is coming to say hello!” Angie said happily.

McAllister’s face went grey and he pushed through the children, scrambling for the gate.

“I thought you had a special offer for me,” Crowley said innocently. “Don’t you want to come inside and talk about it?”

McAllister spun to stare at him, then his eyes dropped to the ground and he backed up another step.

Crowley didn’t even look down as Aziraphale’s body coiled lazily up his starting from his ankle to wind around his thigh then his waist and circling his ribs, until the snake’s head popped over his shoulder. Crowley reached up without looking to scratch under the serpent’s chin.

“I think,” he said, smiling pleasantly, “that you should get lost, don’t you? And maybe let your friends know that I’m not interested in selling too, hm?”

McAllister recoiled. “What the f–” He hissed in frustration and panic. “What _are_ you?”

Crowley took a step towards him, eyes gleaming as the children clustered fiercely around him. “I’m doing _good_, Mr. McAllister,” he said, his voice gentle and full of benevolence, “and neither you nor your money-grabbing little friends are going to stop me.” He pointed to the gate. “Get the Hell off my property.”

McAllister turned tail and fled.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, smiling. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale gave him a snakey grin, tongue flicking out, then butted the top of his head against Crowley’s cheek. “My pleassssure.”

“Uncle Tony,” Pasha yelled from inside the hall. “One of those men peed on the floor.”

Crowley leaned his head away to give the demon a look. “He must have been very scared of Hiss.”

The snake blinked at him innocently and for something with neither shoulders nor arms, managed a very expressive shrug.

“Dumbies,” Sofia said, shaking her head with disgust. “That’s yucky. And they’re grown-ups! Grown-ups should know how to use a toilet!”

“I’ll get the mop,” Crowley said with a smile. If cleaning up after them was the price of getting rid of McAllister and his cronies, then it was a small price well worth paying. “Come on, Hiss. We have work to do.”


	45. 1991 - Helping Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 13 - ‘You brought this upon yourself, you have no one else to blame’ **

“You could just miracle it away.”

The angel didn’t even dignify him with a look, as he continued to transfer art supplies from the tables to the box. “And you could stop telling me how to run my centre. I don’t even know why you’re here, to be honest. You know I have a lot to do.”

“You _make_ yourself a lot to do,” the demon countered as he wandered along the south side of the hall, peering at the latest creations of Crowley’s youth group.

It ran for the duration of the summer, somewhere for the local children to go when their parents had to work, and the angel spent his days happily mucking about with paint and clay and odd little games that the humans seemed to enjoy.

“Ha!” He paused, bending to study one of the little clay figurines. “I think this one is meant to be you, my dear.”

“Yeah?” Crowley abandoned his tidying to come over. A dopey smile lit his face. “Ah, that’s Meera’s. She’s very good.”

“Mm. I can recognise the sarcasm in the face,” Aziraphale said with a grin. “Look! She even managed to make you smirk.”

Crowley flashed a glare at him. “I don’t _smirk_.”

“And I don’t enjoy a good dinner,” Aziraphale retorted, chuckling. “She missed the bottle of wine in your hand. You always have one when I’m around.”

Crowley made a face. “I don’t drink around the children, do I?”

“Suppose not.” Aziraphale glanced up at the mural hanging on the wall. “Who’s idea was that?”

Crowley followed his gaze. “Some of the kids were doing World War II at school,” he said with a crooked grin. “One of them had dug up the history of the church. 50th anniversary since it was blown up. They wanted to do a painting of it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help chuckling. “Ah, children. The things that delight them.” He studied it. “I assume you didn’t have the heart to tell them that it wasn’t on fire like that? That is rather an impressive amount of flame for a building that crumbled like shortbread.”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley snorted, returning to his tidying, organising bottles and tubes of paint by colour into the large storage box.

“No Nazis either, I notice,” Aziraphale continued, fighting a smile. “One would imagine you could have let them know about Nazis.” He meandered across the floor after the angel. “Or do you prefer to pretend I didn’t dash in like a knight in shining armour to save you?”

“Dash,” Crowley echoed, laughing. “Bounced in, you mean. Hopped. Waddled.”

Aziraphale made a moue, folding his arms. “Is that any way to treat someone who saved you from _Nazis_?”

“Rich, coming from the person who was almost completely offed by the KGB,” Crowley retorted.

For a moment, Aziraphale stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

The angel was stock still. “Um.”

“What do you mean,” Aziraphale demanded, stalking closer, “‘completely offed by the KGB’?”

The flush was rapidly accelerating up the back of Crowley’s neck. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Aziraphale insinuated himself between angel and art table. “The colour in your face suggests it’s _something_.”

Crowley fidgeted, avoiding his eyes, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. Anyone else might have pushed for answers, but Aziraphale knew the angel well enough to simply stare at him and _wait_. Crowley had a bad habit. He liked to… enlighten people, especially when he had a receptive, waiting audience.

“He had _holy water_!” he wailed. “What was I meant to do?”

Aziraphale’s heart was suddenly in his throat. “A human? A human with holy water?”

“I mean, he didn’t know what you are,” Crowley babbled like a broken tap that couldn’t stop. “I– he was– look, he had a knife, but he was carrying a bottle of the stuff from his nan for good luck and I– he didn’t know it would do anything to you, but I did and I couldn’t– so I didn’t and he wouldn’t’ve stopped so I did the big, flashy aaaaaaaaaaaah! And then he–”

He bit off his words, shoving the shell-shocked Aziraphale aside and snatching up the box.

“S’a long time ago. Doesn’t matter.” 

Doesn’t matter.

Intervening with humans to save the life of a demon. Not just the corporation, but the _life_ of a demon.

Crowley was all but running out of the hall to the supply cupboard. Aziraphale gave chase, catching him there with nowhere to flee.

“Angel.”

The box rattled in the angel’s hands as he shoved it up onto the shelf. He was taut as a bow, his shoulders hunched, his back to the demon. “Don’t. Don’t make a thing of it. S’nothing.”

For once, Aziraphale could not give a damn about restraint. He closed the distance between them and – pressing to Crowley’s back – wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist. “It’s not nothing, my dear,” he said, his own voice treacherously shaky.

Crowley shivered, one hand clutching at the demon’s wrist. “’Ziraphale…”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, holding him that little bit tighter. “You brought this on yourself.”

And, for only a moment, a brief, lovely instant, the angel leaned back into him. “Shot myself in the foot there, didn’t I?” he said hoarsely.

Aziraphale smiled against his shoulder. “Oh yes. Now you’ll never be rid of me.”

Crowley’s laugh was small and shaky. “Damn.”

He patted Aziraphale’s wrist lightly and the demon knew that anything more would risk damaging what he had already been given, so he loosened his arms.

“Shall I help?” he offered. “With the tidying?”

Crowley glanced back over his shoulder, then offered the smallest of smiles and nods. “I’d like that.”

And so, Aziraphale, tempter, corrupter, and demon, ended up mopping the floor of a church.


	46. 1992 - November - Flash of Recollection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hummed to himself as he strolled through the gates of the community centre, tossing a bottle of wine in ever increasing arcs in the air. Overhead, fireworks were flashing in the annual reminder of a failed terrorist attack. Ah, humans. Blowing things up to commemorate the lack of blowing kings up.  
“Evening, my dear!” he called, as he tapped them pushed the door of the chapter house open.  
The lights were on, the room as warm and welcoming as ever, but to his surprise, there was no sign of the angel. Crowley wasn’t one to miss one of their scheduled evenings of ridiculous amounts of takeaway and wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss writing these clowns.

Aziraphale hummed to himself as he strolled through the gates of the community centre, tossing a bottle of wine in ever increasing arcs in the air. Overhead, fireworks were flashing in the annual reminder of a failed terrorist attack. Ah, humans. Blowing things up to commemorate the lack of blowing kings up.

“Evening, my dear!” he called, as he tapped them pushed the door of the chapter house open.

The lights were on, the room as warm and welcoming as ever, but to his surprise, there was no sign of the angel. Crowley wasn’t one to miss one of their scheduled evenings of ridiculous amounts of takeaway and wine.

“Hm.” Aziraphale set the bottle down on the coffee table. The glasses and plates were already laid out in readiness, which meant he couldn’t be far away. “Where have you wandered off too?”

He barely had to reach out at all.

Crowley was in the former church hall.

Probably tidying up some chaos left by the children again, the demon thought with a chuckle. He always did let them get away with too much. And he always got so caught up and lost track of the time as well.

The gravel crunched underfoot as Aziraphale wandered back in the direction of the main doors of the building, though he couldn’t help noticing that the windows were dark. Very peculiar. But at least the door was ajar, so he pushed it open, peering in.

The whisper of Crowley’s mind brushed his. _Quietly_, the angel implored.

Frowning, concerned, Aziraphale slipped into the building. The small vestibule was empty, so he walked into the main body of the hall and, at once, saw the huddled shape in the shadows, the flash of a firework overhead illuminating his red hair. And yet, curiously, he didn’t hear the bang.

“Hello there,” he murmured, approaching as Crowley – and a smaller, paler, frightened face – looked up. “Enjoying the quiet?”

The child – perhaps five years old – curled tighter against Crowley’s chest. The angel stroked the tousled brown hair.

“Maya doesn’t like the fireworks,” he murmured. “The noise is scary, so I gave her somewhere quiet to wait for the display to finish.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The angel gave him a pointed look and patted the floor beside him. “You could stay.”

Aziraphale doubtfully eyed the child. “You know I’m not… accustomed to the smaller variety.”

“They’re not so different,” Crowley murmured, wrapping his arms around the little girl. She relaxed into his embrace and Crowley looked up over her head. A small, tired smile tugged his lips and he nodded to the spot beside him.

Aziraphale sighed, sitting down beside him. “You are a very pushy creature, darling.”

Crowley chuckled. “I think you _like_ being pushed sometimes.”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale gazed up at the curve of the ceiling, watching the play of colours from the fireworks on the metal, wood and stone. “Do you remember the first time we saw a firework display? Beijing, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.” Crowley adjusted the girl in his lap. Her head was on his shoulder, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes peacefully closed. “You were wearing that ridiculous robe. The one with the…” He laughed quietly. “You know. The… I don’t even know _what_ they were.”

“They were _meant_ to be mythic creatures, unknown to human eyes!”

“And they were…” The angel pointedly cleared his throat. “I mean, there were some very clear… male parts visible and enjoying themselves.”

Aziraphale raised his eyes innocently ceilingward. “Well, it’s hardly as if the humans would notice that.”

Crowley snorted. “_Please_. Humans _always_ notice that.”

The demon grinned. “We couldn’t all look as diverting as you. You always do suit gold in your hair and it looked so splendid loose against those silks you were wearing. Plenty of the other ladies in attendance were quite green with envy.”

Crowley rolled his eyes fondly, but Aziraphale could see pink in his cheeks that was nothing to do with the flares of colour from the sky. “Shaddup.”

“You know I’m only ever utterly honest, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned towards him, eyes wide and virtuous. “It’s one of my better qualities, don’t you know?”

“Only because you know the truth hurts more,” Crowley said with a snort.

“Semantics,” Aziraphale retorted happily. “I am the very model of a modest honest ex-angel.”

“And you just lied to my face,” Crowley said, his grin making his eyes dance. “Modest? You?”

Aziraphale feigned offence. “I _am_! Perfectly so!”

“Idiot,” the angel said happily. He glanced up at the windows. The flashes were coming less frequently and he sighed with relief. “Sorry I delayed dinner.”

Aziraphale glanced at the little girl asleep in his arms. “As excuses go, I am entirely unsurprised by this one.”

Crowley gazed down at her. “Yeah. I’m predictable, sometimes.”

“Only to one who knows you, my dear.” He craned his neck. “I do believe the storm is breaking. I expect her family are watching the display by the river?”

“Mm.”

“You could have taken her into the chapter house,” Aziraphale murmured, getting to his feet and offering Crowley a hand to pull him upright. “It’s a little cosier than here.”

Crowley shook his head. “Couldn’t,” he murmured, as they walked back towards the door. “They all know that’s my place and no one wants to break the rules. She was already worked up enough when I tried and when I asked her, she wanted to come in here. She likes it in here.”

Who, Aziraphale thought with a fond look at his idiot angel, would blame her?

“Shall I go and open the wine, then? And you can… unload your burden?”

Crowley made a face at him. “She’s hardly a burden.” He headed towards the gate.

“I notice you don’t object to the wine,” Aziraphale called towards the angel’s retreating back. Crowley, eloquent as ever, lifted one hand and flipped his middle finger at him over his shoulder. Aziraphale chuckled and crunched his way back along to the chapter house.


	47. 1998 - Making a Song and Dance

"Ah, there you are, my dear!" Aziraphale swept down on the angel.

Crowley didn't even seem to notice him, staring at the poster. It was for the current and very well-reviewed production and Aziraphale was delighted to have... ah... acquired a pair of tickets. Of course, he couldn't just _invite_ the angel, but a little bit of subterfuge harmed no one.

As always, the angel was right on time.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale nudged him gently.

The angel leapt like a startled cat, whipping around. Almost at once, he sagged, sighing. "Oh. It's just you."

"Well yes." Aziraphale shrugged expansively. "Who else would it be?"

The angel gave him a strained smile. "Yeah. I know. Obviously." He glanced back at the poster, then returned his gaze to Aziraphale. "You said to meet here. What's up?"

Aziraphale beamed and whipped the two tickets out of his pocket. "I thought we could sit inside. Less conspicuous."

Another dart of dark, worried eyes to the poster and back. "That?"

"Yes! That! Only a marvellous production of my favourite piece of Saint-Saëns's work!" Aziraphale looped his arm through the angel's. "And by now, most people will be in their seats, so I can tread on a few pompous toes on the way in."

To his astonishment, the angel wriggled free. "I-I can't go to an opera," he said. "I thought- we were meant to be meeting for work."

"And work we shall!" Aziraphale advanced to catch his arm again. "Come along, dear. No one will mind your outfit." He beamed. "I'll make sure of that."

"No!" Crowley wrenched his arm free again. "I-I don't have time. I've got things on tonight. You can't just– I can't just–" His voice was shaking. "Look, it was a kind thought, but I'm not– I don't– I _can't_ go."

And there, the deep line was back, far deeper than usual, far deeper than it had any right to be. Come to think of it, it had been quite some time since Crowley had been so skittish.

Aziraphale tucked the tickets away, the date miraculously changing to another one. "I suppose it was rather silly," he said. "After all, we could hardly hear ourselves think in there, could we?" He glanced about then waved grandly towards a rather nice brasserie across the road. "I shall take you to dinner and we can talk there."

A blind man would have been able to see the tension evaporate from the angel's body. It _was_ the opera, then. How odd. They'd been to dozens of shows across dozens of countries in their time.

"Nothing big," Crowley said.

"Of course not," Aziraphale agreed amiably. "After all, you've got things on tonight, haven't you?"

Crowley's face flushed, but he covered his reaction with a shrug, as if it could mask the fact he was lying. "Stuff, yeah."

More and more peculiar.

Still, if it was a source of upset, best not to prod the wound.

"Can I beg half an hour of your time, then?" Aziraphale suggested. He pressed a hand to his heart. "I shall be on my best behaviour."

To his relief, the angel gave him a genuine, albeit weak, smile. "I'll believe that when I see it." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his outsized jeans. "Go on, then. Half an hour."

Ten minutes later, they were safely ensconced in a private booth with plush leather seats and the angel was already nursing his second glass of red wine, which was never a good sign. White wine was for pleasure. Red wine was for getting very drunk remarkably quickly. Aziraphale had selected a scotch instead and was taking his time with it, his attention on the angel.

In recent years, with his community centre to keep him occupied, and Heaven less attentive, Crowley seldom got himself so worked up over little matters, which meant something was troubling him and what it had to do with the opera, Aziraphale was dying to know.

But of course, the moment he asked directly was the moment the furrow would return, the angel would flee, and the questions would remain unanswered.

One had to know how to pick one’s moments.

“I ought to have given you a little more notice,” he said, tilting his glass towards the angel. “It was rather abrupt of me to expect you would be free for several hours.”

Crowley shrugged. “You weren’t to know.”

Therein sat the lie. Of course Aziraphale knew. He received a newsletter every month about events at the community centre – because Crowley knew he liked to have a reliable schedule – and nowhere in it did it mention any events or concerts or anything. In fact, it was the very reason he had chosen this particular evening.

“I’m sure I could get us tickets for another night.”

And there was the tightening of his features, the thinning of the lips, and the angel drained the rest of the glass and set it down. Part of Aziraphale expected him to rise and walk away, but to his relief, Crowley held up a hand to the waitress and ordered another.

“I’d rather not,” he said when the third glass arrived and was partway to finished. “Not a fan.”

“Of Saint-Saëns?”

A lie and they both knew it.

“Operas,” the angel finally said. “Biblical ones. Always so…” He frowned into his glass. “I prefer made up stuff.”

Well, that suggested some unfortunate ties to the content if the thought of it alarmed him so.

Better to divert his thoughts in more amusing directions, then.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said with a wistful sigh. “You’ll find most operas, even the biblical ones, are ‘made up stuff’, as you call it.” He chuckled at the thought. “Can you imagine if Goliath had burst into a song of challenge?”

He spotted the reluctant twitch of the angel’s lips. “Yeah.”

“And Judith! That Picchetto de Tenda Aria was so very memorable.”

The angel’s smile was creeping back. “Now you’re just being daft.”

“What about Eve?” Aziraphale added, eyes dancing. “You knew her, didn’t you? Did she seem more like a soprano or a mezzo?”

“She was tone deaf, that’s what she was,” Crowley said and there it was, the warm, true smile he always tried to hide from everyone. “Honestly, Adam said she sounded like a donkey in pain when she tried to sing.”

That gave Aziraphale pause. “You knew them so well?”

Crowley actually laughed. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes brightening. “I went back, checked on them a few times. They heard me singing and wanted to try and that’s when Adam said…” He snickered. “She kicked like one when she heard him say that.”

It oughtn’t to have been a surprise. After all, Crowley did so enjoy his time with the humans. Of course he was the kind of angel to go and find the first humans.

“She struck me as a very forthright woman,” Aziraphale said. “Remarkably bright.”

Crowley stuck out his tongue. “Yeah and I bet you played on that, didn’t you?” He finished his glass of wine and peered into it. “She remembered you, y’know. Talked to her about what happened and the tree and the garden and everything.”

Aziraphale set down his glass. “You did?”

“Mm.” Crowley waved for another glass of wine. “Said it was funny that none of the other animals bothered talking to her, but a snake came over, telling her about how tasty apples were.”

Aziraphale smirked. “Was I wrong?”

“She said it wasn’t worth writing home about,” Crowley replied with a hiccup. “False advertising, she said. Liked the knowledge bit, but preferred a pomegranate for flavour and texture.” He gave the waitress a grateful smile as she brought the rest of the bottle over for him. “An’ she made the first beer.” He sniffed as he poured himself another drink. “Tasted like camel piss.”

Aziraphale eyed him. “You must’ve spent a lot of time with them.”

“Mm.” Crowley nodded, slouching back in the booth. “Secret.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Did m’job. Did some extra.”

And all, Aziraphale thought wonderingly, with Heaven huffing down his neck for any little misbehaviour. It was comforting to know that he had been helping people for as long as people had existed. It was a very _him_ thing to do.

“It never fails to amaze me how much you love them,” he said.

“Them?” Crowley tipped the last of the bottle into his glass.

“Humans.”

Crowley’s face broke into the most beatific of smiles. “Yeah. My humans.” He looked at the empty bottle, then put it down. “You’d’ve liked Eve. She made the _best_ swears.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Mm. Good ones.” He sighed and clapped his hands over his face, rubbing at it. “M’sorry.”

“For what, my dear?”

“Ruining your surprise.” Crowley’s words were muffled by his hands. “Didn’t wanna make you miss it.”

Aziraphale rose, leaning over the table and drawing Crowley’s hands down from his face. “My dear, I would rather be with you here than alone in there.” He gave the angel a smile. “Shall we return to yours? Take some more wine with us?”

Crowley stared at him, then nodded. “Yeah.” He got to his feet, only a little unsteady. “Need a taxi, though. Didn’t bring her with me.”

“Her?” The angel gave him an offended look. “Oh! Your monstrosity.”

Crowley leaned forward on the table, narrowing his eyes in a way that was probably meant to be threatening. “S’my Bentley. You be nice.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale soothed, smiling. “I won’t tell her you cheated on her with a black cab.”

Crowley seemed torn between glowering and pouting, but settled for straightening up. “Right. Good. Fine.” He threw up his hand again. “The bill!”

It took them almost ten minutes to not only settle the bill – “s’mine! You’re not touching! Geroff! Stoppit!” – and get outside where, conveniently enough, there was a taxi waiting for them. Aziraphale not-so-gently bundled the angel into the back, pausing to glance across at the theatre.

There would be another night. _Samson and Delilah_ could wait.

“Oi!” Crowley tugged the end of his coat. “Gerin!”

Aziraphale ducked in with a smile. “Of course, angel,” he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there was any question what one of [Crowley's biggest shame and traumas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594375/chapters/49663580) was.


	48. 1999 - New Year’s Eve - Festivities

“I think you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

Crowley beamed at Aziraphale. Was a good party. The hall was full and the garden was full and everything was full. Had big fire outside for making people toasty warm and he had a nice big mug of mulled wine.

“Special,” he said firmly, clinking his cup against Aziraphale’s. They’d bagsied the bench and had a blanket from… somewhere. Probably. “S’new millenninia– millenier– mille–” He flapped a hand at the silly word. “Thousand years. Big.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went all creasy around the edges. Always did when he was making a real smile and not the big, big one for everyone else. “Six thousand and four for us.”

Crowley squinted at him. “Yeah?”

“Mm. I’ve been keeping track.” He frowned a bit. “Well, six thousand and three years and two and a half months.”

Crowley nodded, impressed. “Big numbers,” he decided.

“Since the beginning.” Aziraphale’s eyes were even more creasy around the edges. “Are you sure you aren’t cold, my dear? We could go closer to the fire?”

Crowley pulled on new blanket thingie, tucking it up around his ears. “M’fine.”

“You look like a drunk caterpillar.”

He sniffed and took another mouthful of wine. “Not a caterpillar. Already got wings.”

That made Aziraphale laugh and Aziraphale’s laugh made Crowley grin. Aziraphale laughed lots at lots of things, but the laugh he kept for Crowley was the best one. Made him all warm into his toes and it was a good laugh.

“S’good you came,” Crowley declared. “Y’never come to my parties.”

“Your humans’ parties.”

“Fah.” Crowley flapped his hand again. “Smantics.”

“Are there or are there not humans in attendance? Frequently small and alcohol-free ones?”

“Bleh.” Crowley made a face at him. “Y’like my kids. Know you do.”

“Not for parties,” Aziraphale countered. “Not my kind of entertainment.”

“Mm.” Crowley screwed up his nose. “No shagging.”

“Angel!”

Crowley blinked. “Wha? S’what it’s called!”

Aziraphale stared at him, then squished his fingers against his eyes. “Do you really think that’s all I do with my humans?”

Crowley thought long and hard about it. “Yeah. An’ the buggery.” He beamed. “S’good to have a hobby.”

Aziraphale’s mouth was flapping open and shut.

Crowley leaned over and put his finger under Aziraphale’s chin, pushing it shut. “Don’t want to catch flies,” he said gravely.

“What the _fuck_ was in your wine, angel?”

Crowley cocked his head. Well, that was a silly question. “Grapes?”

“And have you, perchance, imbibed or consumed anything else apart from wine?”

“Oh!” Crowley nodded emphatically and groped in his pocket. Napkin was a bit sticky now, but he pulled it out and presented it. “Brownie! I saved you some!”

“Brownie.” Aziraphale’s mouth was all twitchy. “Did some of your young lads bring this?” He nodded towards the gates where some of the boys were smoking their roll-ups. “Those lads in particular?”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley set down his cup and unpeeled the brownie. “Here. Have some.”

Aziraphale closed his hand around it. “I’m fine, thank you, darling.” He touched Crowley’s cheek, his hand all warm. “Perhaps you ought to consider sobering up a little, hm? I think there was more than chocolate in that brownie.”

It took a minute for the words to all make any sense and Crowley yelped and dropped the brownie like it was a live grenade as his head cleared.

“Shit!”

“It’s all right, angel,” Aziraphale said, laughing. “You’re too trusting, that’s all.”

“But I ate it and–” Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh buggering hell.”

“Recalling a few choice words, are we?” Aziraphale sounded amused, which was… something at least.

“Mm.” Crowley peeked out between his fingers. “Sorry.”

“Frankly,” the demon said, chuckling, “I’m astonished you think I have the stamina.” He leaned down and retrieved Crowley’s cup, which was – miraculously – refilled and steaming gently. “You know what a lazy bastard I am.”

Crowley managed a watery smile. “Should’ve known. Humans also give you food and pillows.”

“Precisely!” Aziraphale clicked his tongue in mock-chagrin. “Imagine limiting them only to bed sports.” He leaned closer and pulled the blanket more snugly up around Crowley’s shoulders. “Anyway, I would rather have all my time with you alone, so your parties hardly suit me, what with your incessant hosting.”

“You’ve got me now,” Crowley pointed out, wondering if he looked as pink and warm as he felt.

Aziraphale’s face was close and his eyes were warm and soft in the firelight. “I do, don’t I?”

Somewhere in the hall, the countdown was shouted out.

_Ten_.

“I should–” Crowley put out his hand, pushing Aziraphale back a little way.

_Nine_.

“Of course.”

_Eight_.

The demon smiled.

_Seven_.

“Aziraphale.”

_Six_.

“Yes, my dear.”

_Five_.

Crowley’s mouth was dry.

_Four_.

“Are you all right, angel?”

_Three_.

Crowley nodded, unfolding from the bench.

_Two_.

“I’ll just…”

_One_.

It was the bells and the cheers and the joy and those clear blue eyes looking up at him, without expectation or doubt. It was New Year. It was– everyone was– everyone always _did_ and he…

He leaned down and – light as air – kissed Aziraphale quickly on the lips.

Aziraphale’s eyes went round as plates.

Crowley suspected his were doing the same.

They stared at each other, then Crowley yipped, turned tail, and fled back into the party. And, thank God, Aziraphale didn’t come in after him, because he definitely didn’t need to witness an angel trying to drown his embarrassment in the punch bowl. 


	49. 2006 - Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 18 - Kiss of Death**

Alice squeezed through the crowds to get to her Dad and Nan. She was hugging her violin against her chest as she pushed between all the grown-ups and around the chairs.

“There you are, cupcake!” Dad reached out and gave her a big hug. “Well done! You sounded brilliant!”

Alice beamed.

They were doing a big show at the centre and everyone was allowed to show something. They even let her play a solo, because she was doing so well in her violin lessons. Nan had come along especially, even though she hardly ever went out anymore.

“You played very well, my love,” Nan said, her smile making her face even more wrinkly than usual. She was sitting in her wheelchair “It was very lovely music.”

“Thanks, Nan,” she said happily. “I’m glad you came!”

Nan nodded. “I’m happy too,” she said. “I used to love this place. Do you remember when we played in the garden, Keisha? Umma gave use such a beating when we came home all covered in mud.” She chuckled. “We couldn’t sit for a week, then we came back and did it all again, eh?”

Alice looked worriedly up at dad. His smile turned a bit sad. “This isn’t Keisha, mum. This is Alice. She’s my little one.”

Nan stared at him, then at Alice. “Ah…” She smiled again, but she looked confused. “Ah, yes. Alice.” She shook her head. “My old brain playing tricks again.”

“S’all right, Nan,” Alice said, leaning down to hug her. Nan was so small and all bones and wrinkles. “I don’t mind.”

Nan nodded, still smiling, but it was a sad smile like dad’s. “Maybe, you can take me to the garden,” she said. “I can show you where we played.”

Alice’s dad nodded, taking the handles of the wheelchair. Alice reached out to take Nan’s hand, her thin brown fingers so bony in Alice’s.

“The garden is so big now,” Alice said. “Uncle Tony has a gardening club and they even have food and stuff growing.”

“Ha! They do?” Nan grinned. “When I came here, it was only grass and some flowers. They – the other children – they said we wouldn’t be allowed in.” She chuckled again, rocking back and forth in her chair. “They said he wouldn’t let us, Mr. C. They said we were dirty.” She leaned closer to Alice. “Do you know what he said to them?”

Alice shook her head, wide-eyed.

“He said,” Nan confided, “the only people who would not be welcome in his garden were the people who tried to keep us out.” She nodded again, happily. “He told me I was like a lady he knew once. Said I was always welcome.”

Alice squeezed her hand. “He sounds nice.”

“Oh, he was,” Nan said with a happy sigh. “He always had biscuits, the best biscuits you have ever tasted.” She laughed again, shaking her shoulders. “I always took two. I hid them in my pocket. I think he always knew!”

Nan had so many stories about the time when she was little. She had come to England on a big ship with her mum and dad a long, long time ago. Those stories, she always told the best. She even remembered the colour of the blankets on the ship. Sometimes, she couldn’t even remember dad’s name, but the ship blankets and the first soup she ever had and all kinds of silly things that weren’t very important.

Dad wheeled the chair out of the door and it crunched on the gravel outside. He had to push it extra hard, until Nan was sitting in the middle of the garden.

“The flowers are so lovely,” she said, looking around happily. “I was not allowed to touch them when we came here.”

Alice frowned. “But you said–”

“I said he let me into the garden,” Nan said, chuckling to herself. “I did not say I was a _good_ gardener. If I touched a plant, it would surely die, so I was not allowed to touch the plants and so they did not die. He called it the finger-kiss of death. I had to be very careful.”

“So what did you do?” Alice asked, puzzled. 

“There!” Nan pointed to the place where uncle Tony had a small wooden shed. “That was our place.” She tugged on Alice’s hand. “There was no shed before, you know. We had buckets and a shovel and he let us dig for worms!”

“Yuck!”

Nan looked offended. “Yuck? Worms are useful, child! My father, he would take them. He would go and fish when he could. Not well, not in the big river. It was very dirty then. So dirty and smelly. But sometimes, he caught a fish from our worms.”

“Sounds like grandad, doesn’t it?” Her dad was leaning on the handles of the wheelchair, but the chair creaked when he straightened up. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to disturb you!”

Alice frowned, turning to see who he was talking to, then beamed. “Uncle Tony!”

Uncle Tony had come out of his secret special house at the end of the garden. He laughed. “It’s fine, Michael. Thought I’d pop out and say hello.” He smiled at Alice. “I could hear you playing through the window. Sounded good.”

Alice wriggled happily, hugging her violin. “I practised lots.”

Nan let go of her hand and Alice squeaked in alarm when she pushed her hands against the armrests of the wheelchair.

“Nan! You can’t–”

“Mr. C?” Nan got up on her wobbly legs and was staring at Uncle Tony, as if she’d seen a ghost. She did that a lot with people she thought she knew. Everyone said Uncle Tony’s dad and grandad had looked after the building before him. Maybe he looked a lot like them.

Uncle Tony walked closer.

She’s mixed up, Alice wanted to tell him. She has a bad bit in her brain. She gets confused.

Uncle Tony was smiling, though, and Uncle Tony’s smile made all the scary, worried feelings go away. “How have you been, you little rascal?”

Nan beamed up at him, big lines curling around her eyes and mouth. She looked so happy and bright and tottered forward a step and hugged him.

“Sorry,” Dad said again, quietly. “She– she has her moments.”

Uncle Tony shook his head, his arms around Nan. “It’s all right. Doesn’t do any harm.” He rubbed Nan’s shoulders. “How about I take her in for tea and biscuits and you can go and have a chat with your friends, eh?”

Alice glanced back at the hall. Nicki and Sanjeev were both there and she really, really wanted to go and show them the new pokemon she’d caught.

“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I mean, she’s– she might not–”

“She can behave herself, can’t you, little miss?” Uncle Tony said with a smile down at Nan, who cackled at him. “Breaking a habit of a lifetime, eh?”

“I _always_ behave,” Nan said, grinning so widely the gaps where her teeth were missing showed.

“And we both know that’s rubbish,” Uncle Tony said, as he helped her back to her wheelchair. “How about it, little Eve? Want to come in for biscuits?”

She stared up at him. “Into the house?”

He nodded, crouching down and clasping her hands. “Special occasion, eh?”

Nan gave him the biggest smile Alice had ever seen, then waved one hand at Dad, like she was the Queen of something. “Away,” she ordered. “Mr. C will take me for tea and biscuits!”

“Are you sure?” Dad said, as Alice grabbed his hand.

“I think we’ll be fine, eh, Dora?” Uncle Tony straightened up.

Nan nodded happily, reaching up to clasp his hand. “Off with you,” she insisted. “You know where you will find me when you finish.”

Dad headed back towards the church, Alice clinging to his hand.

“Dad,” Alice said, looking back over her shoulder, watching Uncle Tony wheel Nan into his house, where no one else was allowed to go.

“Yeah, love?”

“How did Uncle Tony know Nan’s name?”


	50. 2016 - Prickly

For people who had huge, sprawling gardens, the Dowlings didn’t seem to care all that much what happened in them. The other gardeners had all sort of… drifted away after Crowley’s arrival and that meant no one was there to stop him putting in a lovely vegetable plot and planting several fruit bushes.

It also meant that there was an ongoing battle between Nanny and Mr. Francis about whether the fruit was gathered properly or illicitly stolen off the bushes by a sticky-fingered demon accompanied by a tiny giggling Antichrist.

Crowley slunk along the back of the wall, lifting the hose over the edge of it, and turned the water on full blast.

Both Aziraphale and Warlock howled in dismay.

Crowley grinned, scrambling up onto the wall, and widened his eyes in feigned shock. “Och, no! Ye’re all wet!”

“Mr. Francis!” Warlock squeaked in alarm.

Aziraphale looked like she was trying very hard to be annoyed, but her lips were twitching. “That was uncalled for, Mr. Francis.”

He propped his arms on the wall, smirking down at her. “If I’d known you were going to be plucking at my berries, I’d’ve made myself available, hen.”

It was always a pleasure to make the demon’s mouth open and shut in astonishment and there was even a hint of a blush blooming on her face. “I– yes– well, that would be very kind of you. We didn’t want to be an imposition.”

He cupped his chin in one hand. “No, I can see that.”

Warlock – still soggy – tugged on her hand. “Nanny, I’m all wet.”

Aziraphale could resist many things, but Crowley could see him desperately struggling and losing. “Yes, dear, and Mr. Francis made me very wet as well.” She flashed a filthy glance his way. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Francis, we’ll go and freshen up.”

“Can we come and get some berries after?” Warlock piped up.

Crowley cleared his throat pointedly.

“Please!” the boy added brightly. “Me and Nanny can help you pick them.”

Crowley couldn’t help grinning. “That’d be very kind of you, wee man.” His eyes danced as he met Aziraphale’s. “He’s a polite wee lad, isn’t he, hen?”

Behind her back, as they walked away, Aziraphale made a rude gesture.

Crowley took careful aim with the hose and hit her right between the shoulder blades, a beautiful ‘fuck!’ ringing out across the grounds along with Warlock’s delighted giggle.

Half an hour later, they returned, dry and armed with a basket from the kitchen. Under Nanny Ashtoreth’s stern gaze, Crowley helped Warlock pick the best and ripest of berries, setting them into his basket. Crowley couldn’t help noticing that every so often, even though she wasn’t helping with the harvest, Nanny’s fingers were getting pinker and pinker with berry juice.

“Can we make pie?” Warlock asked eagerly, once the basket was filled.

“How about a tart?” Crowley inquired, all wide-eyed innocence. “Can Nanny make a tart?”

She looked like she wanted to throw the basket of fruit at his head, her cheeks twitching hard with the effort of keeping herself from laughing. “Certainly, poppet,” she said, glaring daggers at him over Warlock’s head. “We’ll make it nice and sweet.”

“And bring Mr. Francis a bit,” the boy said at once, beaming.

“I’ll bring him some this evening,” Nanny said. “Don’t you worry.” She glanced at Crowley. “Will you be about tonight, Mr. Francis? No… other engagements?”

He shook his head. “I stay on the grounds, Miss Ashtoreth. You’ll find me by my wee cubby by the pond.”

“I’ll bring you a fresh tart this evening, then,” she said and this time, he was the one to cough to cover a laugh.

There was plenty to keep him occupied for the rest of the afternoon and by sundown, he’d cleaned the dirt from his hands and was sitting on the small jetty that poked out into the body of water at the end of the garden. Technically, it was a pond, but the size of the thing looked more like an oversized ornamental lake.

He leaned out over the water, dropping crumbs for the fish that darted around the wooden legs, smiling when a small coot darted out of the reeds nearby to take advantage of the feast.

“Having fun, are you, Mr. Francis?”

Crowley sat up and glanced over his shoulder. “Miss Ashtoreth!”

Aziraphale held up a canvas bag. “Young Master Warlock insisted I bring it.” She flicked her eyes towards the small summer house that was serving as his home for the duration. “Shall we take it inside?”

He scrambled up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Of course, hen,” he said, motioning her in. “Ladies first.”

Once they were inside the small house, the door closed behind them, Aziraphale exhaled noisily. “You, my dear,” she said, “are a _menace._”

Crowley grinned. “Takes one to know one.” He squeezed around her to head for the small cabinet by the wall. “Wine?”

Aziraphale nodded, sagging down onto the bed. “Lord, that child is a handful.” She rooted about in her bag. “But, as promised, I brought you a tart.”

“And got it on my bed too,” Crowley retorted, returning with the wine.

She made a face at him. “You’re incorrigible,” she said, trading off a plastic box for one of the wine glasses. “I’m afraid you’ll have to eat it as well. Warlock will no doubt ask you for your rating tomorrow.”

Crowley sat down on the floor by her feet, putting his glass down beside him. “I can manage a bit,” he said, opening up the box. It looked about as impressive as a tart made by a seven year old really could, messy and sticky and sprinkled with icing sugar. “Exactly how much sugar am I going to ingest?”

Aziraphale widened her eyes innocently. “Well, he’s spending this evening with mummy and daddy…”

“Oh Lord…” Crowley cautiously jabbed his finger into the fruity mess and cautiously licked the syrup. “Oof…”

“If you can’t finish it,” Aziraphale said magnanimously, “I’ll fall on your fork for you.”

“As usual,” he said, smiling, though he did venture a couple of bites before passing the box back up to her. He retrieved his wine, leaning back on his other hand as he drank.

The remains of the tart vanished quickly and Aziraphale produced a napkin from God only knew where, dabbing at her lips.

“Darling, may I ask you something?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask permission?”

She made a moue at him. “I didn’t realise you were… living here constantly,” she said, waving around the small summer house. “I’d assumed you were trotting back to your house overnight, since you wouldn’t be needed here.”

Crowley glanced around. The place was small, yes, but it had a bench he had adapted into a reasonably comfortable bed, a cupboard, and a nice view over the pond in the morning. “I thought it was easier to stay close by.”

“But your building…”

“No different than yours,” Crowley pointed out. “I was going back and forward so much, it seemed a bit pointless to commute.” He glanced out the window with a smile. “Anyway, it’s quiet here. Don’t mind a bit of a change. And I’ve got ducks outside.”

“True.” Aziraphale sighed. “I just– I rather like knowing you were happy where you were and now, I’ve dragged you into this little mess.”

Crowley snorted into his wine. “Little understatement there.”

She pulled a face at him. “Since you’re missing out on your usual things, I got a little gift for you.” She held out the canvas bag. “I couldn’t help noticing that it had become quite thematic for your little clubs at the community centre.”

He eyed the bag like an unexploded grenade. “What is it?”

“Nothing dreadful.” She gave the bag a shake. “Go on! It won’t bite!”

Cautiously, Crowley took the bag and peered inside. There was a folded bundle of pale blue cloth at the bottom and he pulled it out, frowning in puzzlement. It unfolded into a t-shirt and he shook it open, turning it around.

Across the front, a bright green cartoon cactus cried forlornly and around it, in bright yellow letters, the suggestion “Don’t be a prick”.

Crowley made a small sound. Yelp maybe. Squeak. Something. S’a present. For him. A thing he liked. With something else he liked on it. For him. From someone he liked. And given to him as a kind gesture.

His heart did a fluttery weird thing.

“I saw it when I took Warlock to Covent Garden,” Aziraphale said, sounding unusually bashful, “and I couldn’t help but think of you. I was going to keep it for Christmas, but since you’re on your own here and don’t have any of your home comf–”

Crowley scrambled up on his knees and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, hugging the t-shirt against his chest with his other arm, all his words scattered.

Blue eyes blinked hopefully at him. “You... you like it, then?”

Crowley nodded, with a shaky laugh. “S’great.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale gave him a surprisingly gentle smile and returned the squeeze of his hand. “You’re welcome, darling.”


	51. 2019 - August - After All

The empty bottles stood in a line on the table.

Aziraphale added the latest one carefully, making sure they were all neat, then rattled a spoon along the row with a tinkle like a faulty xylophone.

It had been a good day, all told. Apart from the abduction. And Crowley’s bonk on the head. And the almost-death. But apart from that, scaring Hell and Heaven and everyone was all good. And the Ritz had been very nice as well. As had the many, many bottles of wine.

“’Ziraphale.”

“Hm?” He leaned back on the couch, sprawling against the arm, and squinted at the angel. Crowley was – for once – not balancing on the arm of the couch. He was a bit too wobbly for that. Instead, he was sitting between Aziraphale’s feet against the arm that was usually his perch, one of his legs thrown over Aziraphale’s to dangle down onto the floor.

“C’n’I ask you something?” he asked, eyes all wide and dark and staring.

“Course.” Aziraphale belched genteely into one hand.

“D’you love me?”

The demon blinked slowly, then wiggled a fingertip into his ear. “Pardon?”

“D’you love me?” The angel repeated.

It sounded just as surreal the second time around and Aziraphale was suddenly and very sober. “That’s what I thought you said.” He hoped his smile was convincing. “What do you think you’re doing, springing a question like that on a man?”

Crowley leaned forward, searching his face, his eyes like bottomless pools. “Do you?”

Aziraphale huffed, fidgeting. “Why are you asking?”

“Because.” Crowley shifted onto his knees, leaning closer, one hand groping its way along the back of the couch for balance. “Do you?”

“I don’t see why it’s important.”

“Is,” Crowley persisted, crawling even closer. “Do you?”

“It’s just a word, darling.”

“Not.” A skinny hand pressed to his chest and his world was entirely Crowley’s wide-eyed earnest face. “Do you?”

Aziraphale tried to look anywhere else, shifting awkwardly. “You know demons can’t love.”

“Lie,” Crowley said with the absolute certainty of the angel who had once sat at God’s right hand. “Podular miscomp– miscon– s’wrong. Not right. Feel everything.” He smiled and it was as perfect as a sunrise. “Best thing in the world, love. Like… like…” He shrugged and flopped forward against Aziraphale’s chest, their noses bumping. “Do you?”

Aziraphale lifted his hand to gently brush his fingers along Crowley’s cheek. “Would it make you happy? Having a _demon_ love you?”

“Best thing in the world,” the angel repeated, his expression so radiant that Aziraphale quite forgot how to breathe. Crowley’s hair tangled in messy strands around his fingers and the angel’s heart pattered against Aziraphale’s chest through his thin t-shirt. His whisper was a puff of air against Aziraphale’s lips. “Do you?”

Such a simple word, Aziraphale thought helplessly, stroking his fingers deeper into Crowley’s hair. So simple and yet also the hardest and most impossible thing to give voice. Demons didn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, and yet…

And yet…

“Yes,” he replied, meeting those honey-brown eyes.

Crowley’s entire face lit up and for a split-second, the divine radiance of his joy was so dazzling that Aziraphale had to close his eyes against it. “Knew it!” The angel gave a happy hoot and before Aziraphale could open his eyes again, warm skinny hands framed his face and lips pressed to his.

The demon gave a small, startled squeak, eyes popping open, and Crowley drew back, blinking.

“Oh!” His face pinked. “Not like that?”

Aziraphale– words– all gone. Lips shook. Words, not there.

“’Ziraphale?” Crowley, close, worried.

“Like that?” The demon managed to croak. “You? Like that?”

Crowley’s face went redder and he nodded. “Love you.”

Silly darling bit of fluff. “No. Love everyone. N’angel. S’what you do.” 

Crowley’s eyes went all honeyed fire. “Love you,” he repeated and kissed Aziraphale again. “Love you, love you, love you.” Lips and nose and brow and eyelids and cheeks and everywhere. Hands in Aziraphale’s hair, mouth opening over his, kissing him like he meant it.

When they broke apart, breathless, quaking, Aziraphale stared up at him. “Love me?”

Crowley shone. “So much.”

Aziraphale’s eyes burned rebelliously and he sat up, wrapping his arms around the blessed angel, pulling him closer and closer and closer. “Love you too,” he confided as their lips found one another again.


	52. 2019 - August - In Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the dust settles, Aziraphale and Crowley have a much needed talk.

Crowley’s sofa, it turned out, folded into a rather comfortable-looking bed.

Aziraphale stood uncertainly beside it, as Crowley – still reeling and tipsy – unfolded it all, smoothing the sheet in place. In all of the decades that he had been visiting the angel in the old church, he had only stayed once and that night had been a real test of restraint.

Now, everything had changed.

“Can I do anything?” he asked quietly.

Crowley shook his head as he straightened up. “All good,” he declared, then without any blushes or modesty or anything, peeled off his t-shirt and threw it on the floor. His jeans followed, leaving him bare but for his socks – stripy things, incongruous on his pale skinny legs. He sprawled down onto the bed, pulling the covers up from the floor, then frowned at Aziraphale. “You not getting in?”

Aziraphale’s heart was in his mouth and his hands were unsteadier than he cared to admit, as he removed his shirt and trousers. Out of at least some sense of propriety, he kept his underwear on. Crowley was in no fit state for anything more than sleep and it would keep at least one barrier between him and temptation.

The angel gave him a sleepy, sunny smile when he sat down on the bed beside him.

“I,” Crowley informed him, wriggling closer, “am going to cuddle the life out of you.”

“Is that so?”

The angel nodded happily. “Love you lots.” He pulled the blankets up around them both, then squirmed until one of his legs was curled around Aziraphale’s, his arm around Aziraphale’s middle, and his face was nuzzling into his throat. “Mm.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers to bring down the lights, but remained motionless, staring up at the ceiling – and the graffitied Lamb of God – in the watery moonlight. Tentatively, gently, he brought his arm up around Crowley, curling his fingers into the angel’s hair.

He wasn’t much of a sleeper. He never had been, really. It wasn’t something he needed to do. Crowley, on the other hand, exhausted himself every single day. He barely stopped, between miracles and kindness and good deeds and goodness only knew what else. Sleep was no longer an option for him, but a necessity.

Still, if it meant Aziraphale could lie there, listening to the soft sounds of an angel at rest, then he was more than happy to play pillow, especially knowing that the morning may bring other far more interesting developments.

The moon had passed across two more windows when Aziraphale felt the angel tense beside him. Crowley’s fingers dug into his side sharply and his breath was coming in sharper gusts and at once, Aziraphale remembered a night centuries, no, millennia ago. A narrow bed, a dingy room, and the angel flinching and tensed in a nightmare.

“Hush, dear,” he murmured, spreading his fingers through the angel’s hair, stroking across his scalp. He shifted himself to better wrap himself around Crowley, his body blotting out the world, his warmth offered to every inch of Crowley’s taut, shivering body.

Little by little, Crowley’s tremors subsided, but his face was hot and wet against Aziraphale’s throat and his fingers were still digging into him.

“’Ziraphale?”

“I’m here, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured gently. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

A hot sigh sloughed against his skin and Crowley sagged, slumping back into exhausted sleep.

Aziraphale remained where he lay on his side, the angel tucked snugly against him, and gazed down, worried, at Crowley’s face. He had seen the angel sleeping three times in their long lives. Two out of three times, there had been nightmares and that was a ratio that he really, _really_ didn’t like. The narrow furrow was there again between Crowley’s brows and habit made him smooth it.

Crowley stirred, murmuring nonsense, then his head rocked back against Aziraphale chest and he was quiet again.

“What am I to do with you, my darling?” the demon asked softly.

Mercifully, Crowley slept peacefully the rest of the night and even well into the morning. Aziraphale gently tucked him up and dressed, leaving a note on the pillow to let the angel know he had gone to collect some breakfast.

There were plenty of pleasant little cafes in the area, so he picked the closest one, and was back so quickly that Crowley had barely moved. All that was visible of him was the fluff of red hair between the pillows and covers.

The scent of coffee was apparently enough to rouse him, though, and the covers shifted.

“Morning,” Aziraphale murmured, perching on the arm of the couch. He offered down a cup – reusable, of course, or he would never hear the end of it – and smiled as Crowley groped out, blinking muzzily in the morning light.

“S’it early?” Crowley inquired, shuffling up the bed and wincing as daylight striped across his face.

“Reasonably,” Aziraphale murmured.

He wasn’t surprised when Crowley took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sobered the rest of himself up. A bottle on the windowsill wobbled unsteadily as it refilled halfway. Personally, he tended to sober up as soon as being drunk stopped being amusing, but Crowley had been very tired the night before.

The angel tucked himself into the corner of the unfolded couch, the quilt wrapped over his legs, and took the cup of coffee, clinging to it like a drowning man would a life belt.

“I have some pastries left,” Aziraphale murmured, watching him. “If you’re hungry.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’m good,” he said with a bright smile. “Slept well.”

Aziraphale had expected as much. He circled around the couch and sat again, toeing off his boots then making himself comfortable against the back of the couch, nursing his own cup of steaming tea. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and laid his hand on Crowley’s bare knee, squeezing it.

“You stayed,” Crowley observed, pink blooming on his cheeks.

“Mm.” Aziraphale ran his finger in a circle on the angel’s knee. “I did.”

Crowley gazed at him, then wriggled a little closer to tuck himself against Aziraphale’s side. “I’m glad,” he confided.

Aziraphale wrapped his arm more snugly around the angel. “Me too.” Ne nuzzled Crowley’s mussed hair, stroking his hand lightly up and down the angel’s arm. “Darling, may I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

Aziraphale chewed his lip, then asked as gently as he could, “Are you often troubled by nightmares?”

Crowley stiffened beneath his arm. “Nightmares?”

“I only– you know I–” Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t mean to pry, my dear, but I have stayed by your side three times and on two of those occasions, you were clearly distressed.”

Crowley was so quiet that Aziraphale feared he had overstepped, but he didn’t pull away or recoil, so the demon remained where he was, tentatively stroking the angel’s arm, a mute comfort and reassurance, should he desire it.

“Always,” Crowley finally said.

“Always?” Aziraphale echoed, frowning. “Since Eden?”

Crowley shook his head. He turned his cup between his hands, one way, then the other. “They made me watch, you know.” His voice was flat and brittle. “Watch them – watch you all Falling. The punishment for… being out of line, for asking too many questions, for associating with the wrong kind, for… not complying.”

Oh Lord.

Crowley, the one who always had a thousand questions that he tried to silence, who – against all odds – befriended a demon, who loved and cherished humanity to the point of disobedience over and over and over.

No wonder he had nightmares, if Heaven’s blade hung by a thread over him and one misstep would be enough to bring it down upon him.

And yet, he couldn’t _not_ sleep. All his living hours running around after, with and for the humans to the point of exhaustion, then all of his nights filled with the nightmares of what might happen if Heaven found out about his… divergences from their ideals. Because he _did_ diverge. All the time. The Arrangement, all his little redistributed miracles, his goodness spreading through contact.

“You’re a _good_ angel,” Aziraphale said with as much force as he could muster. “They had no reason to see you Fall.”

Crowley looked up at him, the vulnerability in his expression stealing Aziraphale’s breath away. “They tried before.” His lips tugged weakly as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t. “After Eden. After…” He gave a sharp, cracked laugh. “They tried.”

All at once, Aziraphale understood.

“The book.”

Crowley nodded, looking back down at his cup. “Traitor to the will of Heaven,” he said. “Enemy of the Almighty.” He took an unsteady breath. “They– I– one of them took the book back from the humans. My first punishment. Watching them tear it to pieces and throw it into the sea.”

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale’s arm tightened around him. “Those _bastards_.”

Crowley took a small sip of his coffee. “D’you know the best bit?”

“Best good? Or best bad?”

Crowley looked up at him, a stronger smile playing around his lips. “Best good.” He wiped his nose with the back of his fist. “The book washed up at the feet of one of the prophets of all people. Intact. Restored. As good as new. Only one person could’ve done that.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then laughed. “Oh, She really wanted the humans to have the book, didn’t she?”

“I always thought so,” Crowley admitted. “I mean, why would _She_ need everything written down. It made sense. They didn’t believe it, not until… well, can’t Fall an angel for something if the Almighty just did the same thing.”

“And those petty, spiteful guttersnipes still begrudged you for it?”

Crowley nodded. “They thought making me stay on earth, away from Heaven, was a punishment. Exile or something.”

“Ha!” Aziraphale snorted. “Shows how little they know you.”

“Yeah.” He sighed hugely, his thin little ribs rising and falling against Aziraphale’s arm. “Should’ve seen the looks on their faces, though. When Enoch showed up and he had the book and it was all restored and perfect.” There was glee in his voice. “You’d think someone had pissed in their wine, the way they stared.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help laughing. “I can imagine.” He gave the angel another fond squeeze. “And if I’m to be perfectly candid, I’m rather glad they cast you into exile. My life wouldn’t have been half as much fun without you around.”

Crowley raised those remarkable golden-brown eyes to him. “You’re being nice to me again,” he said, mirth creasing the corners of his mouth.

“Oh do be quiet, angel,” Aziraphale chuckled, leaning down and kissed him gently. He set aside his tea and brought his other hand around to cradle the angel’s cheek. “If I can help with the nightmares, you know I will be by your side as long as you’ll have me.”

Crowley leaned his cheek into Aziraphale’s hand. “Probably healthier than what I’ve been doing until now.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What _have_ you been doing until now?”

Crowley’s smile turned peculiar. “Didn’t you wonder why I always have so much wine?”

“Well– no, not really. I assumed it was your… choice of indulgence. Everyone has one.”

Crowley shook his head, taking an unsteady breath. “This wasn’t indulgence. This was… soporific. Calming. Stopped me thinking too much and too hard about anything. I– it was… easier, I s’pose, and then…” He shrugged.

“Bad habit?” Aziraphale finished, a number of pieces of information slotting into place.

Crowley looked ashamed of himself. “It’s easy enough to have one,” he admitted quietly, “if you can will away all the bad side effects.”

Aziraphale stared at him searchingly. “How often?”

“Most–” Crowley looked away from him self-consciously. “Every night. Since Rome.”

Aziraphale’s throat constricted. “Oh, darling…”

Crowley stared down into his coffee. “Might be easier now,” he admitted quietly. “Now that… well… after everything I’ve done. Still haven’t Fallen. S’what I was afraid of.” He raised his eyes to Aziraphale. “Must be doing _something_ right, eh?”

“Can’t really blame you,” Aziraphale said, making a face. “Being a demon isn’t all that marvellous.”

Crowley shook his head. “Didn’t care what I was,” he said quietly. “They said– when I watched, they told me to Fall was to lose _Her_ Grace. I know– I mean, She doesn’t speak to us much anymore, but I still– She’s–” He waved a hand helplessly. “I can’t _not_ know She’s there.”

Oh. Oh, of course.

It explained all the churches, synagogues, mosques and temples for so many centuries. It explained his choice of a home. It explained why, despite everything, he continued to do so much good with so much love. She had commanded them to love humanity and when it came down to it, there was only one person Crowley had and would ever obey.

“I think it’s safe to say,” he said stroking his thumb down the angel’s cheek, “She approves of everything you’ve done. You’ve obeyed Her to the very letter, after all.” 

Crowley’s smile returned, small but bright. “She told me to teach them, y’know.”

“And you have done that.” Aziraphale kissed the end of his nose lightly. “And Heaven and Hell… I really don’t think they’re going to bother us for quite some time, do you?”

“No,” Crowley agreed, but he curled more closely into him anyway. “Will you stay with me, though? I’d feel– it’s better when you’re nearby. Safer.”

Aziraphale nodded, his cheek brushing Crowley’s hair. “We may need to invest in a bed." He glanced around the limited space of the chapter house. “Although there’s not very much room left for one, darling, and call me sentimental, but I’m rather fond of the couch.”

Crowley lifted his head and looked around. When he took a long, slow breath, the air prickled with the static of his power. Then with a curl of his hand, a gesture Aziraphale had not seen in an eon, an elegant wooden staircase unfurled, curving up around the wall, above the door. At the same time beams of wood seemed to sprout inwards, weaving together into another floor that created a semi-circular balcony above them.

Done, the angel sagged back against Aziraphale with a little sigh. “Can go up there.” He seemed to become aware, moments later, that the demon was saying nothing. “What is it?”

Aziraphale gazed at him wonderingly. “I’m starting to wonder if perhaps they hated so much because you were so much better than them in every respect,” he said. “Certainly more powerful by far.”

Crowley blushed. “Oh, shut up.”

Aziraphale cupped his chin. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to make me.”

So Crowley set down his coffee cup and that’s exactly what he did. 


	53. 2019 - August - Perchance to Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 20 - Open old wounds**

Given the choice of combat, Azirapale would by far have preferred to find himself back on the airfield than in his current situation.

“Can’t!” Crowley wrestled in his embrace, clawing at his chest. “’Ziraphale! Let me go!”

“I won’t do that, darling,” he said, schooling his voice to steadiness. “I gave you my word. I intend to keep it.”

Crowley keened, straining against his grip. “I need– you can’t– I need it– I need it to sleep!”

“No, love,” Aziraphale held him all the tighter, firm and warm and close and trying desperately not to look or sound as if his heart was breaking. “You’re an _angel_, Crowley. You don’t need it at all. You can do without it. You did before.”

The sound the angel made was desperate and painful. “D’you _want_ to hurt me?” he cried out. “S’that what you want? You want to see what I’m– what my brain does to me? Do you want to hear me screaming?”

That was worse than the nails tearing at his chest and the pummelling fists.

Sometimes, Aziraphale was grateful he had the excuse of being a bastard of a demon.

He caught a hank of Crowley’s hair in his fist, twisting it, holding him still and growling a low rumble from the depths of his chest. Crowley froze and panted, wild-eyed and staring.

“Guilt trips don’t work on me, _angel_,” Aziraphale growled. “You don’t _need_ any of that.”

Oh Saints and Demons, Crowley’s eyes were welling up, spilling over.

“I don’t want the dreams,” he whispered. “Don’t make me have the dreams.”

“Oh, my darling…” Aziraphale loosened his grip on Crowley’s hair to gather him closer. “I can’t stop them coming, but I will do everything in my power to drive them off.” He rocked the angel soothingly. “You’ve been on your own with them for too long. Let me man the defences for you. Let me protect you.”

Crowley’s hands scrabbled at his chest again, clinging now. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know, my dearest.” Aziraphale stroked his hair gently. “I know, but I also know that no matter what your dreams tell you of Falling, it will never happen. Not now, not after everything we’ve done. If the Almighty wanted you to Fall from her Grace, it would have happened when we were causing chaos, wouldn’t it?”

The angel shivered, but nodded. “S’pose.”

“No suppose about it, my love.” Aziraphale lay back down, drawing the trembling angel with him. “Heaven and Hell can go hang. We belong to and with the humans now, you and I. She put us here. She kept us here.” He kissed the angel’s ear gently. “She wants us here.”

Crowley’s breath gusted hotly against his cheek. “Doesn’t stop me thinking about it.”

“I know.” Aziraphale loosened his other arm to draw Crowley’s arm around his waist. “Here. Hold on to me. I’m here with you. I won’t be sleeping so if you’re distressed, I’ll wake you, all right?”

Crowley raised his head, shadow-rimmed eyes staring at him. “Promise?”

It wasn’t the first one he’d asked for, not in the four days since he had last slept. It wouldn’t be the last either.

“I promise,” Aziraphale said, drawing his head back down to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I will drive them off for you. I’m here, my love. I will always be here, until you get sick of me and turn me out in nothing but my underpants.”

The small, tired chuff of a laugh was better than nothing. “’nk you.”

It was hardly a pleasurable chore, not when he knew how much it could well hurt, so he didn’t reply automatically. Instead, he hummed, stroking Crowley’s hair over and over until the angel’s exhaustion finally caught up with him and he slowly, everso slowly, sagged against Aziraphale’s chest and into sleep.

Though it was not as bad as Crowley feared, it was certainly what Aziraphale had expected.

The angel thrashed and cried out in the throes of nightmares that had been drowned out by alcohol for centuries. Woken, he clung and sobbed, then fell into shattered sleep again. It was a long, hard, exhausting night, but by the time the sun broke through the windows of the chapter house, Crowley was still asleep, curled in a tight ball, his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale carded his fingers through the angel’s hair, watching him carefully. He was starting to recognise the signs now: the ripple of tension across his shoulders, that furrow between his brows, the way his hands twitched. This one came on quickly, too quickly, and even as Aziraphale reached for his shoulders to shake him to wakefulness, the angel lashed out, shouting desperately in a long-forgotten angelic tongue. No. Not shouting. Begging. Screaming at someone to stop.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale dodged the furiously fighting arms to catch the angel, pulling him close against his chest. He would have bruises by lunchtime, especially given the way Crowley kept on scratching and wrestling against him. “Darling, hush! Darling! I’m here! I’m here!”

Little by little, Crowley surfaced, though he stared at Aziraphale as if he didn’t recognise him for several unbearably long seconds, before his eyes widened in panic and he pushed himself back, one hand touching the demon’s throat, then patting its way down his chest and over his belly, as if expecting to find… what?

Before Aziraphale could even ask, the angel fell back into him, wrapping his arms tightly around him, his breaths hot and ragged on Aziraphale’s throat.

“Bad?” he guessed softly, running his hands the length of Crowley’s back.

A series of impressions filled his mind. Salt water. Cold. Sharp rocks. A sword blazing with Heavenly fire.

“When they destroyed the Book?” Aziraphale guessed.

Crowley’s fingers dug into the meat of his shoulders. “Not the Book,” he rasped. “Not this time.”

“What, th…” He trailed off at the way the angel’s grip tightened. “Oh.” Neck, chest and belly. Terminal and bloody places to cut into anything, but for a demon and with a Heaven-blessed blade? “Oh, Crowley…”

The angel shuddered in his arms and for good measure, Aziraphale – somewhat awkwardly, given the angle of the ceiling – unfurled his wings to wrap them around him too. The world was cut away from them, stifled and silenced by cream and gold feathers and warmth.

“Is that new?” he asked quietly when Crowley’s violent shivers had eased.

“Mm-mm.”

Oh.

Wordlessly, he stroked his hands over and over, soothing circles on the angel’s back. He hummed a low, rumbling melody and, as much as Crowley’s iron grip would allow, he rocked the angel gently from side to side.

Little by little, the tension drained away.

The angel’s face was tucked in against his neck. He sounded exhausted, poor dove. And he had been dreaming of Aziraphale’s death for goodness knows how long. Lord, no wonder he had been unwilling to sleep, perchance to dream.

Aziraphale drew him back down on the covers, cradling him on his chest, his wings a warmer mantle. It was better, he had noticed. The closer and more snugly the angel rested against him, the less troubled his sleep. What a terrible hardship to offer a means to ease his suffering.

“You can sleep again, love,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.”

The words didn’t even need to be said. He could feel the change in Crowley’s breathing, slower and warmer against his neck. His body slowly slumped, limp and warm and heavy. Aziraphale stroked his fingers through the angel’s hair.

“That’s right, darling,” he murmured softly, “rest again. Dream of happy things and know that if they ever come for me, I will incinerate them before they even have the chance to draw their blades.” He whispered a kiss against Crowley’s ear. “You’re stuck with me now, my love. For eternity.”

“’ternity,” Crowley murmured against his throat, teetering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. “S’nice.”

Lord, how could he make himself even more charming while half-conscious?

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, holding him close. “It is.”


	54. 2019 - October - Act of Charity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from a prompt from Rocket-pool on Tumblr: Do the Inverse duo keep up on Warlock once the world isn't ending? (Or anything to do with Warlock. You had to know I'd ask...)

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Warlock complained, scowling. “I don’t want to go to any dumb fundraiser!”

Harriet counted to ten under her breath. “Sweetie, this is part of a charity event. “Your father wants us to make an effort to show that America is a friendly and generous country. It’ll be good for everyone.”

“Good for _him_, you mean,” Warlock muttered, glaring out of the car window. “But _he_ didn’t have to come.”

God, he made it so difficult not to scream. 

Boarding school was meant to be good for him, but it was his first vacation since he’d started school and the first time she didn’t have Nanny Ashtoreth there to back her up. She’d forgotten how much of a brat he could be when he wanted. 

She rubbed her forehead, gazing out of the window. 

Doing something for charity sounded like a great plan. It got them out of the house. And the invitation to this event said there would be other kids there, which meant maybe she’d get five minutes without him complaining. 

“Mrs. Dowling, we’re approaching the venue,” Cody - her regular Secret Service Agent - glanced back from the passenger seat. “It looks like we need to park on the street.”

The venue was a cute little church. It looked half-old and half-new, the arched roof tinted green with age. A few photographers were hanging around outside the door, so she plastered on her best smile and dragged her son out of the car. 

“What is this even for?” he demanded, as they walked into the building.

“Orphans,” she said, then frowned. No, it wasn’t that. The invitation had said something about…

“Hi!” A man hurried towards them, skinny, red-haired and beaming. “Thanks for…” He trailed off, staring at her. “You’re… you’re Mrs. Dowling, aren’t you? The Ambassador’s wife?”

Harriet sighed in relief, holding out her hand. “I am,” she said. “I’m delighted to be here, on behalf of my husband. We’re very pleased to support your cause for…”

“Syrian refugees,” he finished, still staring. “I-I didn’t realise you’d be coming.” He turned red. “I mean, I thought you’d be too busy with all the… ambassadoring and stuff…”

“Oh, that’s mostly my husband.” She stepped to one side and pulled Warlock alongside her. “This is my son. Warlock. Warlock, say hello.”

He looked up and the man looked down and she felt Warlock stiffen under her arm.

“Hello, Warlock,” the man said, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across his face. “Good to see you.”

To her surprise, Warlock’s face lit up in a grin. “Hi!”

“Excuse me.” Another man approached Harriet. There was something oddly familiar about him, blond and broad, with dancing blue-grey eyes. “Can I show you around, Madame Ambassador?”

She cast a wary glance at Warlock. “You behave yourself, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, mom.” Warlock nodded, not even looking her way.

She sighed, rolling her eyes, then turned to her companion. “Are you in charge here?” she asked.

“I’m a… partner, you could say,” he said, smiling. “Call me Ezra.”

___________________________________________

Crowley closed the door quietly behind him.

He wasn’t surprised to find Aziraphale already lying on the couch, one foot propped on the back. 

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale cracked an eye open. “Hm?”

“You invited them, didn’t you?”

The demon grinned, closing his eye. “Obviously.”

Crowley smiled fondly, kicking off his boots and padding across the floor to sit down beside him. He poked a finger into Aziraphale’s plump belly. “You didn’t have to do that.” Blue eyes opened and gave him a skeptical look. “You didn’t!”

“And have you pining for another three months, wondering what the little bastard was up to?” He flapped a hand dismissively. “Please! I can only take so much.”

Crowley studied him. “Bullshit.”

The demon’s eyes widened comically. “Did you just… _bullshit_ me, my dear?”

“I did and I’d do it again,” Crowley said and jabbed him in the belly again. “I saw you talking to him as well. You miss him too.”

“Shut up!”

“You _do_.” He grinned leaning down over the demon. “You know I can _feel_ love, don’t you, you daft bugger? You love that little rascal.”

Aziraphale glowered at him, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You can’t prove _anything_.”

Crowley laughed. “Don’t have to. You’re a big softy.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You,” Crowley said, eyes dancing, as he leaned in closer, “are soft.”

“Angel, you’re pushing your luck,” the demon growled in warning.

“You won’t want this then?” Crowley held his phone up in front of Aziraphale’s eyes, showing him the photo he’d caught of Warlock laughing as Aziraphale taught him a new obscene hand gesture. 

Aziraphale stared at it, then back at him. “Oh, you _evil_ bugger!”

Crowley dropped a kiss on the end of his nose. “You’re welcome.”


	55. 2019 - October - Security

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 19 - ‘If you thought you were safe, you thought wrong’**

There had been no justice. Worse than that, there had been no vengeance.

However Aziraphale had pulled off that little stunt in the court room, Hastur wasn’t buying it. It was a trick. That was how the demon worked. All tricks and misdirection. Perhaps he had managed to somehow block the effects of Holy Water. It didn’t matter. There were other ways to skin a cat. Or a demon.

Physical torture would have been better, but Lord Beelzebub had given the command that Aziraphale was to be left alone. No touching, which was… frustrating. He would have peeled open so nicely. Plenty of loose flesh to work with after all.

So he’d found another way, a way – in fact – suggested by Aziraphale himself.

The lazy bastard was a great admirer of something called “sigh-cology”. The way he’d explained it, you didn’t have to hurt a person’s body to do them harm. You affected something around them. Better, Aziraphale had said, if it’s something they care about. Smash someone’s favourite toy and watch them cry, then plant the seeds of rage and vengeance. Easy.

So Hastur had eyes on Aziraphale’s favourite toy.

The angel called Crowley.

Ligur had found out about that, Aziraphale’s dirty little secret. Didn’t say how, but Ligur always was a smart one. They knew about Crowley – one of Heaven’s few earthbound envoys and a quiet little goodie-two-shoes by all accounts.

After the embarrassment of a trial, Lord Beelzebub hadn’t put any prohibitions on him. Hadn’t even mentioned him. Hastur consider bringing him up, another reason they should deal with Aziraphale, but Lord Beelzebub was pacing and growling and no one got in the way of the dark Prince in a mood like that. 

It wasn’t hard to find Aziraphale’s little pet.

The sentimental bastard of a demon didn’t even bother hiding where he was going. He was all but living in a _church_ with the skinny little runt of an angel. They held hands. They _cuddled_. Once, Hastur even saw them sitting on a bench in the garden one evening, sharing a blanket and drinking mugs of something together.

It was a disgrace. Demons everywhere would be considered soft by association.

Aziraphale needed to remember what it was to suffer.

Hastur bided his time, waiting until Aziraphale was out of the way and the angel was off-guard. If he thought he was safe, he was very, very wrong.

It was a sunny autumn afternoon when Hastur made his move.

The angel was in the garden, sweeping up fallen leaves with a broom, and glanced up as Hastur came closer. His eyebrows rose, but – infuriatingly – he didn’t look worried. He just leaned on his broom and gave Hastur a friendly smile. “Afternoon. Hastur, isn’t it? Duke of Hell?”

The solid certainty Hastur had been standing on suddenly felt like it was wobbling. “Er.”

The angel Crowley grinned and picked up the broom and started sweeping again. “Have you come to threaten and/or kill, torture, maim, knobble or in any other way do harm to me?”

Hastur had a finger upraised to say something, but all the words deflated out of him. “Yes!” he spluttered. “Of course I have! What did you expect a demon to do?”

Crowley sniffed and shrugged. “Dunno, really. Usually, the demon that comes round here hogs the covers and eats all my digestives.”

“Aziraphale,” Hastur growled with distaste.

“Mm.” The angel turned back to face him. “You’re probably lucky you came when it’s just me here…” Shrewd brown eyes gazed at him. “But that’s why you came, isn’t it? Go after the bastard’s weak spot when he won’t see it coming. He won’t like that.”

“Do you think I care what he _likes_?” Hastur bared his teeth. “Nothing personal, angel.” He snapped his fingers to summon up infernal flame. His hand flamed in purples and reds. Then fizzled out. He stared at it, then snapped his fingers again. Same thing again. “What the–”

The angel was leaning on his broom again, eyebrows raised. “Problem?”

The demon gnashed his teeth, snapping both fingers and casting up a whirling wall of flame.

Which vanished as if it had been sucked into the ground.

“What is– for Satan’s sake!” Hastur shook his hands in anger. “Damn you…”

Over and over, the flames dissolved the moment he created them

Crowley shrugged as if nothing untoward was happening and brushed a few more leaves into a pile. 

“Did you even both to look around when you came through the gates?” he asked, when Hastur’s litany of profanities trailed off into angry panted breaths.

“Wh-what?”

The angel waved around him. “This place. Did you even _look_?” He gave that annoying sunny smile again. “Go on. I can wait.”

Warily, Hastur glanced around the courtyard, then adjusted his vision to take in every plane. For a moment, he saw nothing and then he saw everything. Terror hit him a second before he howled in pain, his hands leaping to shield his eyes. The nexus of power was blinding, criss-crossed all over the building and the gardens and the walls. 

Somewhere beyond the white-out of his vision, he heard the tap of the broom handle being put down, and abruptly, there were hands on his wrists, prying his hands away from his streaming eyes.

The blinding brightness vanished and the angel was standing in front of him, his grip like iron around Hastur’s wrists. Hastur blinked, shaking. He could still see the glow of power, centred around the skinny, ragged creature in front of him.

Impossible.

That level of power was–

He hadn’t seen anything like it, not since–

Not since… before. 

“Funny thing about place,” the angel said, “it’s protected. It’s neutral. It’s _safe_.” He smiled, calm, benevolent and damned heavenly. “I’m telling you this because if you come after me again, if you come after me beyond these walls, it won’t be safe.” His eyes blazed like smoking embers and when he spoke, the harmonics in his voice burned down to Hastur’s bones. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Hastur stared wildly at him. “What the Heaven are you?”

The angel laughed. “Oh. Right. I never introduced myself, did I?” He smiled and this time, there was nothing sweet or harmless about it. “You might have known me as Raziel.”

It was quite a feat to swallow one’s own tongue, but Hastur achieved it, recoiling back in horror. Raziel. The angel who had intervened, who had held time – and Lucifer – at a standstill, who had defied Heaven without Falling, who carried the Almighty’s word to the humans in form and deed. The angel who was part of Lord Beelzebub’s prohibition: do not approach, do not touch, do not provoke.

The angel opened his eyes. All of them. They were all around him, like stars all over his jet black wings.

“Don’t try me, Hastur,” he said, eyes glowing like hot coals. “I don’t like to harm people, but if you come near me or Aziraphale with ill intent again, I _will_ make an exception.”

Hastur nodded, stumbling back over his own feet.

The power and blaze and darkness winked out and the angel was skinny and smiling again in the afternoon sunlight.

Hastur stared around warily, his heart thundering. He couldn’t see the fences of power blocking him in anymore, but he knew they were still there and he was helpless and unarmed. “Y-you’re letting me go?”

“Mm.” Crowley retrieved his broom from the ground. “Don’t try all the ‘you’re making a mistake, you fool’ and diabolical laughter and all that. I’ve heard it before. It didn’t take.” He gently nudged a small pile of leaves into a bigger one, then glanced at the rigid, terrified demon. “D’you want a cup of tea or something? I could get one. You look a bit shaken up.”

“Cup of tea?” Hastur shrieked. “You – you’re a god-damned Archangel!”

“Was, technically,” Crowley corrected. “Only the Archangel part. Briefly. Got demoted. Never God-damned, though. Famous for it.” His smile lit up his face. “But you knew that bit, didn’t you?” He jerked his head towards the church. “Honestly, I could make you a cup. It helps.”

Hastur stared at him. “You… you’re serious?”

Crowley nodded. “Like I said, this is neutral ground. I can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt me. Might even have some biscuits if Aziraphale didn’t get into the tin again.”

“No.” Hastur backed towards the gate and then, for some reason he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, he added, “Thank you.”

Crowley smiled. “Fair enough. Offer stands if you ever want one.”

Hastur shook his head again, retreating out the gates.

That… that wasn’t meant to be what an angel was like! Not at all! Offering tea and biscuits! What kind of angel _did _that? He glanced back at the church, frowning. He’d never had tea or biscuits before and the angel _hadn’t_ hurt him, even though he could’ve.

He shook himself, frowning.

Was this what it felt like to be… tempted?

Ugh! No. No tea! No biscuits! No!

There was definitely something not right about that angel.


	56. 2019 - October - Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 15 - Skeletons in the closet**

Days had rolled by in the wake of the Apocalypse that wasn’t.

Life was falling into a newer routine that involved a good deal more cuddling of an angel and a warmer bed and mugs of hot cocoa under a blanket in the garden in the evenings. There was, of course, still the book shop and Crowley still worked himself silly, but the new routine – their shared routine – was like the finest of wines, the richest of desserts, to be savoured and enjoyed day after day, night after night.

That was why the sudden tide of worry came as a surprise.

It was silly, really, to be so worried about so inconsequential a thing given all that they had faced and survived, but it sat there at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, a lodestone drawing the focus of his world. The fact that the tangible evidence was contained in his shop didn’t make matters any easier.

Crowley didn’t notice at once. Halloween was coming up, after all, and the usual disco was being organised in the hall. That meant days of decorations being made and hordes of excitable children hyped up on the anticipation of sweets.

But of course, in the end, he did.

“You’ve been very quiet,” he murmured, slipping into bed behind the demon.

“Hm?”

“You.” Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s middle, nestling against his back. “I know I’ve been preoccupied, but you’re never usually this quiet.” He gave him a gentle squeeze. “What’s going on?”

Aziraphale ran his fingertips along the back of Crowley’s hand, staring at the slope of the ceiling ahead of him. “I keep on remembering,” he said quietly, “who you were before all of this. Who you were to _Her_. Who you were to Heaven.”

“Ah.” Crowley’s sigh was sad and a little resigned. “Raziel.”

Aziraphale nodded, tracing each of Crowley’s knuckles. “We’ve known each other for so long, darling.” He frowned, overlaying his fingers against Crowley’s. “I just– I understand _why_ you never told me, but I– it’s you. It’s such a… very you thing to have done. I should have realised, but I didn’t.” He sighed, ribs rising and falling beneath Crowley’s arm. “And I know it’s selfish, but I suppose I’m a little hurt you didn’t feel you could tell me.”

Crowley sighed, warm and soft, against his shoulder. “Yeah, but it would’ve been bloody awkward, wouldn’t it?” He poked Aziraphale’s belly with his finger. “After all, you were charged with finding Raziel, weren’t you? I spent hundreds of years worrying you’d find out and that Hell’d come down on me as badly as Heaven.”

“I know,” Aziraphale shifted under his arm, sprawling onto his back to look up at him. “It’s ridiculous, but there’s this… vast piece of your existence, something that has shaped you so much, and I didn’t know.” He lifted his hand from Crowley’s to brush the angel’s cheek. “If I ever mistepped because of it, I want you to know it wasn’t done out of malice. If I ever pulled you into more difficulties with…” He waved a hand upwards. “It wasn’t my intent.”

Crowley stared down at him. “You’re upset because you thought you might have… upset me because you didn’t know?”

“And,” Aziraphale said, stroking a thumb down his cheek, “for not letting on that you could knock the Morningstar on his arse. I’m very cross about that. I mean, as much as I enjoyed rescuing you from time to time, it’s rather embarrassing to know that you could probably have wiped the floor with anyone who crossed you.”

The angel’s face flamed. “Oh shut up!”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “It’s true though, isn’t it? You are quite the little firework when you go off.” He cocked his head. “Any other little skeletons you care to get out of your closet or are we all bared… as it were.”

“You certainly are,” Crowley snorted, nudging Aziraphale’s bare thigh with his own. “Anyway, expecting all my secrets is rich coming from the demon who never told me he Fell because of cake.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Who the Hell told you about that?”

Crowley leaned down and kissed him. “I know you.”

The demon grumbled, even as his fingers threaded into Crowley’s hair. “It was hardly _just_ cake, my dear. You make me sound like quite the glutton.”

“Sound like?”

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Aziraphale tumbled the cheeky bugger easily into the sheets. “Now, you take that back! Take it back!”

Crowley grinned up at him. “So you won’t be wanting the chocolate mousse cake I’ve got in the fridge.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, pinning Crowley firmly down with his own weight. “You, my conniving, lying little bastard of an angel, are wicked.” When Crowley reached up and stroked his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, Aziraphale couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “We are… all right, aren’t we, my darling?”

“Course.” Crowley pulled him down to hug him. “And don’t worry. You didn’t upset me. Not even when you were a rogue-angel hunter.” He kissed Aziraphale warmly on the ear. “But you were _rubbish_ at your job.”

“Angel!” Aziraphale reared back indignantly.

“What? You were!” Crowley laughed, tugging a fistful of his hair. “You were looking for an angel who would do something Heaven would disapprove of! A rogue angel who might work with the forces of Hell!”

“Yes, and?”

“_And_?” Crowley stared at him, then burst out laughing again. “The Arrangement, you idiot!”

Aziraphale felt like someone had walloped him across the head with a two-by-four. “But that– it wasn’t–” He sat back up on his heels in the tangle of the sheet. “That wasn’t until a thousand years ago! That doesn’t count!”

Crowley tucked his hands behind his head, his grin widening. “What about an angel who would come over and chat to a demon?”

It wasn’t– technically, yes all other angels avoided any contact, but that didn’t– if you looked at it that way, then…

“But you always seemed such a helpless little muffin!” he protested. “How was I meant to suspect you of doing anything more than… well, whatever it is angels do?”

The angel stretched out his leg and knocked Aziraphale on the hip. “Scared,” he said, a brief, sad smile returning to his face. “You have no idea how terrified I was, especially in the early days.”

“Of me?” Aziraphale frowned. “You never seemed so.”

Crowley shook his head. “Funnily enough, never of you. Not… really.” He cocked his head, gazing at him. “Suspicious, yes. Wary, yes. But you…” He laughed. “It’s odd, but I always felt safe with you. I mean, I’m generally good at picking up on intent, but I didn’t expect it from a demon.”

Aziraphale stroked a hand along his leg. “Wary,” he echoed. “Skittish as a cat, as I recall.”

“Mm.” Crowley offered a hand and pulled Aziraphale back down. Aziraphale went happily, arranging himself comfortably, draped half over Crowley’s body “After the– well, after everything I did, I was… supervised. Michael. They were the one keeping eyes on me. I never knew if they would notice.”

“Petty bastards,” Aziraphale muttered darkly.

“Better than Falling, I thought,” Crowley said, walking his fingers in distracted – and distracting – circles on Aziraphale’s bare back. “They laid off a bit once I– well, commendations and things.” There was an ache to his tone, and if Aziraphale remembered Heavenly commendations right, that was a wound best left unprobed. “Figured I was… behaving. Following their orders. Especially after… well… the Yeshua incident.”

And not even ten years later, Aziraphale had found the angel halfway to drunk in a gutter. Millennia of waiting for the knife in the back and he had finally been able to let go. And fallen into bed with a demon.

“That explains a great deal, you know,” Aziraphale murmured, rubbing his chin along Crowley’s shoulder. “After that, you seemed a little different. Happier, almost.”

“Yeah.” He could hear the smile in Crowley’s voice. “I think I was, a bit.”

Aziraphale lifted his head to look down at the angel. “And after everything they put you through, you still thought the Arrangement was a good idea?”

Crowley shrugged with a crooked grin. “Not a good one, but the right one.” He ran his fingers up Aziraphale’s nape. “I always try to do the right thing and so far, haven’t gone far wrong.” The twitch of his lips should have been a warning. “Turned out the right thing to do was… you.”

Aziraphale was immediately and terrifically warm and no doubt shining like a beacon. “Angel!”

Crowley laughed, giving him that wicked bastard smile of his. “You _love_ it.”

The demon tried for a scowl, but it really, truly failed him. “Lord, I do,” he admitted, “my filthy little bastard angel.”

And haloed by the pillow, Crowley beamed.


	57. 2019 - December - Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 22 - Double edged sword **
> 
> Note: I'm running a day behind after three days offline and no writing and all socialising.

Hastur considered the gates of the churchyard.

It was not the first time, though it could well be the last.

There was no good reason for him to come back again and again, but it was like a worm wriggling away in his brain, rooting about and annoying him until he wanted to scratch it out and, if that failed, well… tearing his brain to messes would work instead.

It was the damned angel, that’s what it was.

Or not-damned angel.

That bastard.

What kind of game was he playing, offering tea and biscuits to a _demon_? To the _enemy_? It had to be some kind of trap, something meant to lure him in, so the angel could destroy him easily.

But – that annoying little rotten worm whispered – if the angel had wanted him dead, he could’ve done it the last time, when they stood in the grounds and Hastur couldn’t even get a decent flame up. It was bloody embarrassing, that’s what it was. Come for vengeance and can’t even get a spark, let alone an inferno going.

And it niggled and wriggled and squirmed around in his head until he came back.

Testing the defences. That’s all he was doing. Seeing if the angel was messing him around. He stood right on the edge, flared blazing Hellfire on both hands, then poked them over the threshold. They snuffed out like a candle dipped in water, not even a sizzle.

Should’ve been an end of it, there and then. Angel had defences up. Simple.

But it didn’t explain why he offered tea and that made the worm twist more hot and angry and for Satan’s sake, it annoyed him so much that he came back again and again. He stood just by the gate glaring at the skinny bastard, as if it could make the worm shut up.

The angel didn’t say anything, every time he came. He just smiled and made a drinking gesture and every damn time, Hastur spat a curse and a fireball at him that splashed out into nothing.

After ten times, he finally stepped into the garden.

Twelfth time, the angel came out and sat down on the bench by the wall, sipping from a cup.

Fourteenth time, Hastur approached the bench. The angel wasn’t about. That made it all right. Poking the defences again. Testing their limits. Seeing what the bastard’s attitude was like when someone came into his territory when he was absent.

It was a solid bench. Sturdy. Hastur sat there, where the angel usually sat, hands gripping his knees tightly. It should have been enough. Humans came and went and didn’t even see him and still he sat.

The sun had gone and it was dark and cold when the angel showed up.

He didn’t say anything. He just went into the church, then came back out a few minutes later with a tray, two mugs and a plate of biscuits. He didn’t say anything as he sat down on the other end of the bench. Didn’t even say anything when he took a cup of tea and a biscuit.

Hastur looked warily down at the cup. “Holy water, is it?”

“Nah.” The angel – Raziel, the worm howled in his head – said. “Thames water. Not the best, but better than it was.”

Hastur eyed the cup. “Acid, then? Quicksilver? Rosemary?”

“Teabags,” the angel said. “Boiling water. Bit of milk. Two sugars.” He gave Hastur that small, crooked smile. “You seemed like a two sugars kind of demon.”

It _didn’t_ make any sense. They were _enemies_. Their kind had been enemies since time immemorial. Enemies didn’t sit down and make tea for each other. Enemies weren’t _nice_. Or _kind_. Especially not bloody angels. Hastur still had the marks of his last encounter with an angel and it definitely hadn’t come from a cup of tea.

“Why?”

The angel sipped his tea. “Why what?”

“Why tea?”

“Swore off alcohol,” the angel replied. “Bit more relaxing than coffee.”

“No!” Hastur exploded in frustration. “Why are you offering _me_ tea!”

“Ah.” The angel wrapped his bony hands around the mug. “Because it’s what I do.”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

He shrugged. “You’re telling me everything Heaven and Hell command makes sense? Compared to them, this is a drop in the ocean.” He smiled again with a small laugh. “Actually, probably not even that.”

“But we’re _enemies_!”

“Yeah,” the angel said. “And who told you that?”

Well…

Well, the ones who had cast them out, that was who. And this was the angel who had defied them and rebelled against them, but still had Her Grace. Hastur’s nails dug into his knees, tearing through his trousers and his flesh.

“They could’ve been wrong,” the angel said. “Have been about plenty of other things, haven’t they?”

Hastur stared at him. “And you told them that, did you?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. A bit. Might’ve told them to fuck off, come the end.”

That was…

No, that wasn’t something a proper angel would do.

And they’d planned to kill him for it, according to that annoying little multi-faced demon. Big fire. Hellfire inferno as a mode of execution. And yet, here he was. And everyone in Hell had assumed it was hypocritical angelic mercy in action, but now, Hastur wasn’t so sure.

“They wanted you dead,” he realised.

The angel frowned at his tea. “Pretty much.” He looked back at Hastur. “Didn’t work out too well, obviously. At least not for them. Fine for me.”

Hastur remembered the hiss of Holy Water on glass and the screams of the Usher. Heaven and Hell’s enemies both unkillable by any means they could find. Satan’s sake, he’d known about Aziraphale, but to know that this skinny, over-friendly bastard was probably ten times as powerful as Aziraphale…

He looked back down at the mug of tea. “Why?” he asked again. “You know why I came. Why… entertain me?”

The angel shrugged. “Why not? I like visitors. If someone is my enemy because they’re told to be, I’m not going to blame them, especially not when I know why you might hate someone like me. If someone chooses to come back and sit on my bench and talk to me, I’m going to welcome them. I’m not a complete bastard.”

Hastur snorted. “Enough of one.”

The angel grinned. “Well, yeah. Make no mistakes, if you ever did become a real threat, I _would_ deal with it, but now? Nah. Tea, biscuits, bit of a chat. No harm, eh? And look at you.” He gave Hastur a knowing look. “Bet you’re not even meant to be here, are you?”

“Er,” said Hastur, recalling Beelzebub’s rage about Raziel.

The angel nudged the tray towards him. “I won’t tell.”

Despite himself, Hastur picked up the mug. “It’s definitely not poison?”

“Nah.” The angel said. “And very, very not-holy. Can guarantee that, if it’s coming from Thames water.”

Hastur curled his hands around the mug. There was a pleasant warmth seeping through the china. “I’ve never had tea before,” he admitted. Never spent much time on the surface at all, really.

“It’s all right,” the angel said. “S’soothing, according to some people.” He picked up another biscuit and dipped it into his tea. Hastur watched him munch on the soggy part with apparent enjoyment.

“And you have to do that?”

“Nah.” The angel grinned. “I just like it. The kids say it’s because it’s soft like me.”

Hastur cautiously sniffed the contents of the cup, then took a sip and was both surprised and relieved that his body didn’t immediately disintegrate around him. The liquid was hot, yes, but bearable, and sweet as the angel had said. Not entirely unpleasant, but he still put it down, questions answered and tea tried.

“You can take a biscuit with you, if you want to try that too,” the angel said, picking up another one and dipping it into his tea.

“I didn’t say–” He bit off the words, annoyed with himself for rising to the angel’s bait.

“Didn’t have to,” the angel replied. He nudged the plate a bit closer. “Consider it this way: if you take it, you’ll piss off Aziraphale.”

Hastur stared at him, then grabbed all the remaining biscuits and shoved them in his pocket, then rose from the bench. He had crunched his way through the gravel and was at the gate before the angel spoke again.

“If you fancy trying coffee, you know where to find me.”

Just when he had crushed one niggling little worm, the damned bastard of an angel had to plant another.

“Stop doing that!” he exclaimed, turning around.

“Doing what?” The angel looked perplexed.

Hastur waved a hand helplessly towards him and his cups and his tray and his damned tea. “I– you’re making me want to _know_ what things are like! Stop that!”

The angel’s eyes widened and he shook his head with that damned smile of his. “Not me, Duke Hastur. That’s all you. It’s called curiosity and it’s an annoying little shit, but if you indulge it, it can be fantastic.”

“You!” Hastur wailed. “You made– you _put_ it in my head!”

“Not even the Almighty is that powerful,” the angel said. “It’s part of you. Probably always has been. Just never had a reason to wonder about it before.”

“But I don’t _want_ it!”

“And I didn’t want to be addicted to helping people,” the angel replied, picking up his tray with the mugs and empty plate. He approached the demon by the gate. “Tell you what, I’ll stop making suggestions, if you come for a coffee, okay? One coffee and your curiosity’ll be slaked. Won’t give it anything else to feed on.”

“One coffee?” Hastur echoed guardedly. “That’s all? And it’ll kill it?”

“That,” the angel said, “is up to you.” And that damned smiled came back. “I’m glad you came, though. And tried the tea. Gabriel would’ve preferred to piss on my head than drink anything human, so you’re already ahead of him.”

“I…I am?” It was odd how warming that was.

“Bright side of curiosity, eh?” The angel winked. “Have a good day, Hastur.”

Without a backwards or wary glance, the angel wandered back into his church and Hastur stood, bewildered, at the gate. Very well. Curiosity would have to be defeated. One coffee more wouldn’t hurt. And it would give him even more of an edge than Archangel fucking Gabriel as well.

Lost in thought, he wandered wondering.


	58. 2019 - December - Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompt #3 - Mundane

“Isn’t there an easier way?”

Crowley paused in front of a shelf, considering it thoughtfully.

“Darling…”

“You said you wanted to spend the day with me,” the angel said mildly. “This is what I’m doing.”

Aziraphale directed his best pout at him. “Yes, but when I said that, I imagined we would be enjoying ourselves.”

“Don’t know about you, but I _am_ enjoying myself.” Crowley fought down a grin, ignoring the demon to pick out a couple of vivid bottles of blue paint. “I told you the panto is coming up at the centre. You _know_ I always help out.”

The demon huffed remarkably like a toddler for a being more than six millennia old. “Yes, but I thought you always… you know…” He made a flourish of his hand. “I didn’t think you did it the… this way.”

“The human way?” Crowley moved on to the red section, running his fingertips along the bottles. “I like doing it this way. Sometimes, you find something you didn’t know you were looking for.” He hauled a couple of large bottles down, adding them to his trolley. “Anyway, I need to find the stickers for the kids’ Christmas parcels and nothing I can come up with is ever as good as the weird ones you can find here.”

“You know you don’t need to give them all gifts,” Aziraphale complained.

Crowley met his eyes. “And I know that for some of them, it might be the only gift they get this year.” He pushed a shopping list against Aziraphale’s chest. “Now, stop moaning and go and find me a couple of big bottles of PVA glue. I need to get the glitter.”

Aziraphale looked down at the list, then sighed mournfully and wandered off.

More than half an hour later, the demon caught up with him outside the shop. Or more precisely, nudged into the back of him with a shopping trolley even more packed out than Crowley’s. It was stacked with toys and games for all age brackets.

Crowley stared at it, then back at him. “What’s all this?”

Aziraphale made a face. “I’m encouraging your children to engage in capitalism.”

Crowley had to look away, biting his lip hard to keep the idiotic smile off his face. Once he composed himself, he managed to say, “You got _presents_? For my kids?”

Aziraphale put his nose in the air. “Engaging in capitalism,” he repeated. “Also, inspiring envy and covetousness. And… and greed… and… and…” He trailed off lamely as Crowley slipped around the trolley and hugged him. “And…” he mumbled into Crowley’s hair, looping an arm around the angel’s waist. “And selfish. I got what I wanted, didn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, smiling as he cupped the demon’s cheek and kissed him.

Aziraphale’s arm tightened around his waist, a small, urgent sound escaping him.

Course, that was when some mean-spirited idiot wandered by and made a comment about “keeping it behind closed doors”.

Aziraphale’s arm tensed around Crowley’s middle and the angel drew back, his hand still on the demon’s cheek. Aziraphale’s eyes were turning solid blue and a low rumble rattled through his chest. Crowley ran his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ll go and put everything in the car. Don’t be long.”

Aziraphale tore his eyes from the retreating homophobe and stared at the angel. “Pardon?”

Crowley tilted his head in the direction of the man. “Go. Have fun.” He dropped another light kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. “Call it my early Christmas present for you.”

Aziraphale’s face broke into a grin. “You _are_ a lovely bastard, you know,” he said happily, twirling Crowley around. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Crowley waved him on. “No permanent damage!” he called after him. “Season of good will and all that!”

“Consider me the Ghost of Christmas Past, my darling! Expect me when the clock strikes one!” Aziraphale blew a kiss back at him, then trotted around the corner after the man.

Crowley laughed, then looked at the two trollies, the stupid, soft, idiotic smile sneaking back onto his face. Sometimes, he thought, as he negotiated both of them – with a little miraculous help – in the direction of the Bentley, Aziraphale could be so bloody soft.


	59. 2020 - January - Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 17 - “The devil can cite scripture for his purpose”- William Shakespeare **
> 
>   
It's worth noting this chapter has a marginally higher rating than the rest of the fic.  


Huddles of people clustered under umbrellas, pushing against the bleak, blustery winds like particularly stubborn mushrooms. Rain was battering down on all sides and the sky was so black it seemed more like night than the middle of the afternoon.

Traffic was moving slowly, almost grinding to a standstill, but inexplicably a dove-grey Bentley was slipping through the growling engines and growling drivers like a minnow through pond weed, somehow finding space to move where no one else did.

It swung across Shaftesbury avenue and up into the narrower streets of Soho, purring along to come to a halt outside a shop with a particular kind of reputation. The single occupant scrambled out, pulling up the hood of his parka – surprising attire for a man driving a Bentley – and hurrying towards the door of the shop.

The shop in question was infamous in the area, with erratic opening times, questionable content in the windows, and rumours of frisky customers frequently being entertained among the shelves by the owner of the shop himself.

The parka-clad man rattled on the door, before pushing his way in as if he owned the place.

Inside, Aziraphale wandered out from the back of the shop, stopping dead in astonishment at the sight of Crowley standing – again – in his shop. Yes, he had come in before, but this– that had been a rather exceptional occasion when he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley snorted as he pushed down his hood and ruffled his hair into more kittenish disarray. “Some welcome, I call that.” He held out a box, which was marked with Chinese writing and leaking savoury steam. “I was in the area. Thought I’d bring lunch.”

Aziraphale opened and shut his mouth several times, trying to quantify the overwhelming tide of emotions and balance them with a rather more restrained expression of said emotions. “Oh,” he managed in an embarrassingly breathy voice. “My _dear_…”

And Crowley, damn the adorable bastard, smirked at him. “You busy?”

At once, Aziraphale snapped both fingers. Customers, who had not been particularly visible – or, in some cases, dressed – emerged from the labyrinth of shelves, suddenly very aware they had other places to be and oh, would you look at the time, don’t mind me, ‘scuse me sir.

“Not,” Aziraphale said happily, “in the least.” He motioned for Crowley to come through to the snug nook he kept at the back of his shop. He had called it his Den of Iniquity so many times that one of his regulars had made a beautifully-engraved plaque for him to hang over the doorway declaring it.

By the time he had rustled up some crockery, the angel had hung up his parka and made himself comfortable on Aziraphale’s couch. It was… well… Aziraphale had to admit that he felt a peculiar flutter under his ribs at the sight of his angel choosing to come, to bring him food, to sit in his place, on his couch, for no other reason than that he wanted to.

And when Crowley looked up at him and smiled, Aziraphale had the suspicion he was beaming like an utter fool.

“Do we need cutlery?” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Nah.” Crowley held up a couple of slim paper packets. “Got chopsticks.” He patted the couch. “Come on! They’re getting cold!”

There was a restaurant the angel had always enjoyed in Chinatown. As far as Aziraphale was aware, they didn’t have a takeaway option, but by some small miracle, Crowley appeared to have done just that, deftly flipping his favourite dumplings onto a plate on the coffee table. When he pointed it out, the angel went pink to his ears.

“I just asked nicely,” he said, making a face.

Coming from anyone else, that might have sounded twee, but from the angel, it was probably nothing more than the truth.

“Well, I’m very grateful,” he said, plucking up one of the steaming dumplings with freshly-snapped chopsticks. He knocked his knee fondly against Crowley’s. “What’s the occasion?”

Crowley shrugged and said around a mouthful of dumpling. “Wanted to see you.”

Aziraphale paused mid-chew, then – with considerable effort – managed to swallow. Perhaps the angel didn’t realise the effect such words had on him. Or perhaps he did. That was the trouble with falling in love with a bright, shining minx of an angel. You never knew when he was going to bowl you over with his biting wit or whip the floor out from beneath you with such utter softness.

“You,” he informed Crowley, “are going to ruin me, you wonderful rascal.”

To his delight, Crowley blushed and beamed. “Shut up,” he said, picking up a dumpling and shoving it in Aziraphale’s mouth.

The food didn’t last long, each little pocket of dough stuffed and spiced to perfection, and by the last, they were fighting furiously over who got to have it.

“You should! You bought them!”

“For you!” Crowley insisted. “Anyway, I snuck three in the car on the way over, so I’ve had more.”

“And you are far skinnier than I, so you need all the meat you can get on your bones.”

The angel rolled his eyes. “You know that’s not how we work, physiologically. If we did, you’d be the size of a blue whale.”

“Which is precisely the principle on which I am arguing,” Aziraphale said, firmly pushing the last dumpling towards him. “I have already over-indulged sufficiently. Now, it’s your turn.”

Crowley glowered down at the dumpling, then picked it up between his chopsticks and squeezed. The damned thing split into two perfectly even halves. The angel gave the demon a smug grin. “There. We both win.”

“He that hath a bountiful eye shall be blessed; for he giveth of his bread to the poor.” Aziraphale said with playful awe as he still took one of the halves.

Crowley stared at him. “Did you just… cite Proverbs at me?”

“What can I say?” the demon said with a chuckle. “I’m a well-read fellow.”

Crowley shook his head with a sigh. “Honestly, I’m amazed you’ve last as long as you have! You know what reading holy books does to you! My one made you look like you’d blasted yourself in the face with a flame-thrower, for Heaven’s sake!”

Aziraphale waved his words away. “It’s all a matter of reasonable precaution,” he said. “I have a welding visor now, so it oughtn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Anymore,” Crowley echoed. “Damn it, Aziraphale!”

The demon sniffed. “You think I’m not going to ensure I know every counter-argument in the book? I like to be prepared for the gallant spreaders of the Good Word when they come knocking, trying to save this poor, humble purveyor of filth and unashamed sodomite.” He beamed in fond recollection. “It’s such a pleasure watching their brains implode with confusion when I turn their weapons against them.”

“I know I should be shocked, and yet…” Crowley said with a wry smile. He set down his chopsticks and stretched. “You mind if I hang around until the weather eases off a bit? Traffic’s a bloody nightmare.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “Why the Heaven would I mind?”

“Well…” Crowley shrugged. “You might want to let customers in. Do good business. You know. Professional shoppy things.”

Aziraphale set down his own chopsticks. “Darling,” he purred, leaning closer, crowding the angel against the arm of the couch, “if there’s one benefit of being a small business owner, it’s that I can do whatever the fuck I like.”

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s face squarely in his palm as the demon tried to steal a kiss, pushing him back with a laugh. “I don’t think the ‘being a small business owner’ is your real reason, is it?” He swung to his feet, turning around on the spot and peering about. “Is all of it… you know…”

“What?” Aziraphale widened his eyes comically, clutching his heart like an affronted Victorian widow and stage-whispered, “Pornography?”

The angel put out his tongue. “Yes, you dirty bugger.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Not all of it, but a substantial amount.” He shrugged. “Easiest of the sins of temptation, sins of the flesh. I don’t even have to _do_ anything. The humans have imagination enough. A little glimpse and some of them are an inferno without any effort on my part.”

“And has the domino effect of jealousy, anger, wrath and everything else…” Crowley observed, wandering back through towards the main body of the shop. “They never realised how much worse – or better from their point of view, I s’pose – you could’ve been if you wanted.”

Wiping his hands fastidiously on his handkerchief, Aziraphale followed him. “Why would I put in any more effort than necessary for them? They are no more my friends than Heaven.”

Crowley shot him a quick smile. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t as bad as you could’ve been. I don’t think I’d’ve liked you half as much.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I’m a _very_ likeable fellow.”

“Eh. You have your moments.”

Aziraphale gave a mortally embarrassing squeak of indignation. “Angel!”

Crowley grinned, meandering onwards through the shelves, peering at them. Occasionally, he pulled out a book, flicking through it. Some of the illustrated ones made his ears turn a brighter shade of pink and he hastily put them back.

“D’you ever want that?” he asked, without turning.

“That?” Aziraphale inquired, settling in one of the armchairs beneath the domed roof to watch him explore.

“You know…” Crowley waved an inarticulate hand. “The… stuff. Squishy stuff. With… parts.”

“Oh! Sex? You mean sex?”

“Mm.” Crowley’s ears were redder than his hair.

What an odd question. “You know I’ve had plenty of it, my dear, or had you forgotten?”

The angel cleared his throat. “No. I mean– with me.”

It was as if a pin had pricked a hole in Aziraphale’s brain and all his words were trickling out like sand and slipping between his fingers as he desperately tried to catch them. He made a sound, though he was fairly sure it wasn’t a real word in any language he could remember.

Honey eyes met his and Crowley’s face flamed even further. “Ah.”

“I– er–” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I can’t say I _haven’t_ wondered…” He recognised the twitch in Crowley’s cheek, one that foretold of a worried frown and hastily added, “Though it’s not a necessity. I rather like kissing you and holding you. Anything else is a human incidental.”

“Like dumplings?”

Like… well, any of Aziraphale’s indulgences really. Yes, he could do without them, but he really did rather enjoy his little pleasures. But as far as he was aware, Crowley had never been carnally intimate with anyone and had never shown any desire to either. And if Crowley was not of that persuasion, then Aziraphale was quite happy to accommodate whatever wishes he did or didn’t have. The darling creature deserved every happiness, even if it meant Aziraphale did not get to indulge in his every secret little fantasy.

A cough dragged him out of his whirling thoughts.

“Can’t say you haven’t wondered, eh?”

Aziraphale peered around. Crowley had wandered into another one of the side nooks and, from the cant of his head, was studying something. But there was nothing of especial interest in there, really, except…

Oh _Lord_. Except a certain statue he had discreetly tucked away in there the night the angel had come to his shop for the first time.

He hurried over. “Darling, this isn’t what it looks like…”

Crowley snorted. “Uh huh.” He pointed at the statues of the two angels. “So what _is_ it?”

“Um.” Aziraphale fidgeted. He had bought it on a whim in the early 19th century, for no other reason than to utterly indulge a particular daydream. Especially since one of the angels had black wings. The other cream and gold. They were both rather emphatically naked. “I believe the description was Evil triumphing over Good.”

“Mm. Hm.” Crowley sounded like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “And they’re doing… what exactly?”

“Wrestling?” Aziraphale said with false optimism, risking a glance at the angel’s pink face.

Crowley met his eyes. “Wrestling? _Really_? Shop like this and _that_ is wrestling?”

Aziraphale tugged at the ends of his waistcoat self-consciously. “I thought it was rather handsome!”

“Bit cliché, though,” Crowley pointed out. “Having black wings doesn’t make anyone evil.” His eyes were definitely glinting now. “Unless you were… thinking of someone else when you bought it.”

The demon pursed his lips up and hmpfed emphatically. “You know very well that I was,” he grumbled. “Stop being such a terrible tease.”

At once, he had a laughing angel in his arms and Crowley kissed him firmly. “You like it.”

Aziraphale snaked his arms around the angel’s waist. “I much prefer when you’re the one blushing and flustered,” he admitted, nuzzling the tip of Crowley’s nose. “It’s hardly any good to anyone if a demon gets embarrassed!”

“I didn’t make you embarrassed,” Crowley said, grinning. “You got embarrassed yourself.” He widened his eyes. “Am I your conscience?”

Aziraphale swatted him on the backside. “Hardly! I don’t have one of those!” He considered the angel in his arms. “And by my count, you have had me flustered several times in the past half hour. I believe it’s time to even the score, don’t you?”

“What are you going to do?” Crowley said, eyes dancing. “Show me your books? That doesn’t count. The books are doing all the work.”

Aziraphale studied him then smiled a serpent’s smile. “I’m going to give you what you deserve, angel,” he murmured, slipping his hands down to rest innocently at the base of Crowley’s back. “I am going to sing your praises.”

“Oh _God_…” Crowley tried too late to back out of the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. “Don’t! Don’t you bloody dare!”

“Shall I talk of bathing in the sweet honey pools of your eyes?” Aziraphale said gleefully. “Or the sunset fire of your hair?”

“Please don’t!” Crowley pushed against his chest, half-laughing. “Not all that rubbish! It sounds like Solomon’s mushy guff! Ooh, you’re a plum tree, I wanna grab your plums!”

“Oho!” Aziraphale spun him around, grinning from ear to eat. “You like ancient filth, do you? Let me tell you, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. .”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley wailed, hiding his face in the demon’s shoulder. “Goats?! For Heaven’s sake! Stop embarrassing yourself!”

“I don’t feel embarrassed,” Aziraphale replied cheerfully. “In fact, isn’t this rather good? It’s _Biblical_ after all! Must be good! You’re just not enjoying it right, you silly angel.”

“No!” Crowley kicked at his shins, laughing helplessly. “No, it’s not! It’s awful!”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Ah, yes, but there’s where you’re wrong because many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.”

“UGH!” Crowley was red as a pillar box, eye-rolling and mugging and pounding his fists against Aziraphale’s chest. “Do you even believe a word of that soppy rubbish?”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. “Of course I do,” he said. “When it’s about you.”

Crowley went very, very still in his arms, then raised those sweet honey eyes to his face. It was a blush of a deeper kind now, not flustered per se, but strong and blooming and utterly delicious framing the look of awed wonder on Crowley’s face. His lips were parted and his fingers uncurled from fists to tug at Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “_Really_?”

In answer, Aziraphale drew him closer and kissed him. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t kissed before, but this felt different, somehow, a barrier crossed, an understanding reached, and all at once, Crowley was electricity in his arms, his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, plastered against him, stealing the breath from his lips.

Lord, Aziraphale’s world was turning into an inferno centred on the living flame that was his angel and Crowley had to be utterly insensible if he wasn’t aware of the effect he was having on Aziraphale’s human shape.

And oh, it was utterly foolish and selfish, but Aziraphale couldn’t help canting his hips forward. Just a little pressure. Just enough. A small indulgence to see him through the nights.

And Crowley… Crowley noticed.

They broke apart, staring at each other, breathing hard.

“Forgive me, love,” Aziraphale said, drawing back and clearing his throat. “A minor inconvenience.”

The angel tilted his head, studying him, then stepped forward, crowding Aziraphale back against the bookshelves. “Can I see?”

At once, Aziraphale’s reaped words were scattered again. Crowley had the uncanny knack of winnowing them away. “I– excuse me?”

Crowley’s face was scarlet, but he nodded downwards. “Can I see?”

A dozen thoughts clamoured for priority and one rose triumphant. “_Why_?”

The angel gave him a small smile. “Because no one ever reacted like that for me. I’ve…” He laughed, self-consciously running his fingers through his hair. “You did that, because of me, yeah?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I didn’t do anything,” he managed, fumbling with his belt. “_You_ did this, my love.” It was strange to feel timid, not after so many years of happy debauchery, but this was different. This was _Crowley_ being his usual curious self. “Don’t laugh.”

Crowley peered down, biting his lip and rosy, as Aziraphale undid his trousers and released his cock, praying to Christ, it would do anything embarrassing like flag under the attention and droop all over again. Not likely, given how much the damn thing was aching for attention and Crowley’s eyes were good enough.

Though, it turned out, his hand was even better.

So much better, in fact, that Aziraphale… rather spontaneously celebrated.

“Urk!” Aziraphale croaked.

“Oh!” Crowley let go at once, shaking the mess off his hand. “That… is that it? That’s what everyone makes all the fuss about?”

Aziraphale idly considered cracking open the floor beneath himself and dropping through it. His face was burning as hot as Hell already. Maybe they needed a new furnace. “Ah… um… well… um…” He cleared his throat. “N-no. Not… um…it usually… longer. Lasts longer.”

The angel stared at him. “You’re _blushing_!” The smile that lit his face was the most heavenly and diabolic thing Aziraphale had ever seen. “That wasn’t meant to happen, was it? You didn’t make– that was– oh Lord!” He dissolved into helpless laughter. “You’re not meant to do it like that, are you?”

Aziraphale pouted at him. “Six thousand years I’d been waiting for that!” He groped for his handkerchief, mopping at the spatter on his waistcoat and trousers. “And look at the mess you made!”

The angel was actually laughing, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “You! Aziraphale! The one who’ll give anything a go! Didn’t even last ten seconds with an angel!”

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “Not just an angel! Only you!”

Crowley shoved his hands out of the way and pinned him happily up against the bookshelves again and kissed the pout off his lips. He lifted his still-damp hand and considered it, then offered it to Aziraphale. “Clean me up?”

The demon stifled a small, pitiable moan, his cock already twitching. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? This is all part of the ineffable plan. This is how you–”

Crowley shut him up by shoving a cum-smeared finger in his mouth. “Oh, shush,” he said, blooming like a sunrise again as Aziraphale sucked and licked at his finger. The demon fixed his eyes on Crowley’s, catching his wrist, then set to work cleaning every inch of his hand.

The angel was squirming in his arms by the time he finished licking between each finger and finally kissed the middle of his palm.

“There,” he said smugly. “All clean.”

“For now,” Crowley agreed, then leaned a little closer, the front of his jeans rubbing against an extraordinarily enthusiastic piece of flesh that had reawoken between them. His lips skimmed Aziraphale’s and his voice was a wicked whisper, “Maybe next time we’ll get to ten seconds, yeah?”

Despite his best intentions, Aziraphale’s hips gave a twitch at the thought and the breath – and groan of embarrassment – caught in his throat.

Crowley peered down between them. “_Again_?” he said, the smile back in his voice. “For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale!”

“Gnnn!” Aziraphale groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Gentle fingertips brushed his wrists and Crowley prised his hands apart. He was luminous, eyes shining and warm, and Aziraphale’s mortification fell away. “I think we can excuse you,” he said, slipping his arms back around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I mean, you’ve been waiting a while.”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s middle. “I know you… don’t.”

“Not one of those, no,” Crowley agreed, nuzzling the tip of his nose. “But we can work things out that we both enjoy.” He smiled into a kiss. “Wouldn’t even mind doing that for you sometimes, if you can… calm it down a little bit.”

Aziraphale laughed helplessly. “It might take some practise.”

The angel curled his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair happily. “We have time.”


	60. 2020 - February - Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note: ** Still running a day behind with prompts. Should be back to schedule tomorrow :)
> 
> **October Prompt 23 - “Fear is the dark room where the Devil develops his negatives.”- Gary Busey**

It took time and careful planning, but Aziraphale was nothing if not infernally patient.

One had to calculate the time, the place, the precautions one needed to take and, when the glorious day came, make sure that a certain angel had no suspicions of both where you were and what you were up to. Bribery had played no small part in the affair.

Aziraphale tapped the flat of his knife against his palm.

He was seated in a non-descript alleyway, not far off one of the main roads of Mumbai. It was grimy and grim, but even in the worst places, one could be surprised by a blessing, which was certainly the case for a poor unfortunate lad called Arush.

Arush was… gently taken care of and sent on his way with a full belly and a miraculous change in fortunes only seconds before the Heavenly light filled the alleyway.

A split-second later, diabolical light flamed from below, smothering it, the sigils etched into the ground glowing with terrible brightness. A precaution upon a precaution. One could never be too careful, after all. Angels could be such dreadfully twitchy creatures.

Aziraphale rose from the barrel he had been sitting on and ran his hand the length of his blade, Hellfire springing in its wake. The flames cast dreadful shadows on the face of the panicked angel he had snared and he smiled, all teeth and malice.

“Hello, Uriel.”

“Demon Aziraphale.” The angel’s face twisted furiously. “I should have expected this of you. Cheating to win.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh, you think this is where I kill you?” He shook his head. “Oh no, my dear. I just thought we ought to have a little… chat, don’t you?”

“A chat?” Uriel echoed derisively. “Why would I choose to waste words on a foul creature like you?”

Aziraphale smiled happily, dragging the knife across his palm as though it were a whetstone, the blade glowing brighter and harsher with every stroke. “I don’t think you really have a choice, do you?”

The angel bared their teeth defiantly, but said nothing.

All the better, really, for Aziraphale didn’t care much what they had to say.

“I find it amusing,” he said mildly, paring his nails with the blazing blade, “that you… you lot, really, profess to be such paragons of virtue.” He flicked a piece of nail at the angel. It sizzled as it bounced off the barrier around them. “Hypocrites, the lot of you.”

“And you would know what it is to be virtuous?” Uriel snarled, as Aziraphale knew they would. No one that self-righteous could keep their trap shut for long.

He smiled. “I know what it is to lack it,” he replied. “I also recognise anger, cruelty, malice towards those who are good. All traits ascribed to me and mine, you know. And yet, from all I’ve seen and all I’ve heard, you have quite the collection of them as well.”

Uriel snorted in disgust. He could see the way they were picking at his defences, trying to find a way through and no doubt very eager to unsheathe the blade at their belt. “What would _you_ know about it?”

Aziraphale tossed his knife casually from hand to hand. “It must really rankle you that he never fell.”

He could see the light go on for the angel. “Raziel,” they spat. “You’re here because of _him_?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale kept his eyes on their face. Lord, it was still so tempting to rip every one of their angelic scales off their arrogant face. “Technically, yes. But at the moment, I would rather concentrate on _you_. It annoys you, doesn’t it? Everything he did? Everything he got away with?”

Uriel hissed. “Shut up.”

He leaned closer to the sizzling cage. “I think I know what _really_ gets your goat,” he said, smiling like Satan. “I think you _hate_ the fact that the Almighty likes him. I think you’re jealous that no matter what you do, you will never be cherished like he is by Her.”

The angel tried not to flinch, but their features tightened. “You can’t know that. No one knows what the Almighty’s will is.”

“True, true,” Aziraphale agreed amiably. “Can’t argue with that.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully with his knife. “But then, wasn’t She the one that returned his book after you ripped it to pieces?” He feigned a wince. “I imagine that was quite the humiliation. After all, you made such a pantomime of destroying it.” He shrugged. “I can’t really say what She was thinking, but…”

And the ‘but’ was enough, hanging in the air.

But She undid everything you did. But you destroyed it when She intended it to be for the humans. But you were wrong and She made sure you knew it. But Raziel’s treachery was clearly Her will along. But, but, but… round and round spins the wheel. So many signs of Her will, so much shame, so much anger.

“He betrayed Heaven!” Uriel snarled, slapping against the defences like a frustrated animal.

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “And in doing so, fulfilled the Divine Will, which Heaven tried to prevent which means… Heaven betrayed Her?”

“No!”

He raised his eyebrows. “It seems rather clear-cut to me, my dear.” He bared his serpent’s teeth, his eyes gleaming. “The War was never Her will. She made that abundantly clear, didn’t She? And She used him to do it, didn’t She?” He wrinkled his nose. “Tell me again, Uriel, when did you decide Heaven was superior to Her?”

“I–I didn’t!” Their eyes blazed furiously. “You won’t trip me up with your manipulative wiles, _demon_.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the demon sighed, then blew softly on his knife, extinguishing the flame. “Perhaps I’m only tempting you. But it’s worth considering, isn’t it? I mean, if I were you, I’d have a good long think about where your priorities lie. How many more times are you going to piss on the Almighty’s parade before you get the message?”

“You’ll regret this!” Uriel’s distress was palpable.

Aziraphale widened his eyes. “You know, my dear, I _really_ won’t.” He scraped the tip of his blade along the shields. “And keep that in mind if you continue to hang onto outdated vendettas like first editions: he and I are no longer fettered by Heaven nor Hell. Touch him, harm one hair on his head, and you won’t simply _die_. You will _suffer_.”

The angel stared at him, retreating a step. “Why not kill me now?”

“I’d wager it’s the same reason you were never punished for what you did to the Book,” Aziraphale said, slipping his knife away. “Because he wouldn’t want that. For his sake, you are spared.” He smiled darkly. “Don’t imagine that I have stayed my hand out of mercy. Only his wishes protect you now. Don’t underestimate how precious his kindness is, especially when you don’t deserve it.”

“For what I did to the book…” Uriel clearly had never given that any thought before.

“Well, you _did_ destroy Her Word, didn’t you? Tore it to ribbons, as far as I understand.”

He waited for long enough to see that realisation sink in and anger turn to horror and despair, then stepped back into the ether, leaving the angel to deal with the concept of conscience for the first time in their long existence.


	61. 2020 - February - Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 26 - Graveyard Shift**

There was something soothing about the patter of raindrops on the roof above him.

Aziraphale always found rain a pleasant reminder of the first encounter he had ever had with the angel currently nestled in his arms. Crowley had never once hesitated to shelter him, not even when he should have considered him the enemy. It had certainly given Aziraphale’s perceptions a good hard shake.

Crowley made a sleepy sound, shivering.

Not a bad shiver, for a change, but one of cold. Aziraphale reached down, drawing the thick woollen blanket further up to tuck him in more snugly. It was a ridiculous monstrous patchwork made by Crowley’s legion of excitable children. He had taught them to knit and, in turn, they had gathered up colourful mismatched squares they created and turned them into a blanket.

Crowley shed joyful tears when they presented it to him for Christmas.

For some reason that Aziraphale had never understood, the angel adored textiles, especially home-made ones. He had a peculiar selection of them stored neatly in the chapter house.

There was one so old and worn and faded that it was barely more than ragged scrap of cloth. It had always been folded up beside the couch where Crowley slept and when he added the bed to his home, it had been relocated to the bedside, though Aziraphale had never seen him touch it. A security blanket, he’d called it, and got so embarrassed that Aziraphale showed mercy and didn’t ask any more questions.

It was so quiet in the darkness of the chapter house.

Occasionally, there was a flicker of light through the windows on the lower level when the moon managed to fight its way through the burgeoning black clouds, but most of the time, there was only silence and it was good.

Well, not entirely silence.

Crowley still snored quietly.

The angel had one arm and one leg flung possessively across Aziraphale’s body, his face buried in the comfortable padding of the demon’s chest. He had his fingers curled into Aziraphale’s pyjamas – a fine plaid pair, which the angel had presented to him with great delight – and he was, for the first time in… well, in an awfully long time, sleeping peacefully.

Aziraphale continued to gently card his fingers through Crowley’s hair. The angel liked that quite a lot, found it soothing enough that it often drew him to sleep even when he insisted he wasn’t tired. And Aziraphale took equal amounts of pleasure in both providing the soothing comfort and in indulging his millennia-held desire to bury his fingers in Crowley’s beautiful thick hair.

It was the boon of his demonic nature that he didn’t need to sleep. It meant that he could be awake and attentive and see the moment when Crowley relaxed utterly in his embrace, the lines of his face softening until they all but vanished. Sometimes, in the dark stillness, he could see the angel smile.

Yes, there was still the eternal fear and anticipation of the moments those lines returned and carved deep in the seconds before the angel cried out, but they had been diminishing night on night, and Aziraphale could not deny he was waiting for the coming of dawn with bated breath.

A night without terror and screams and bruises raked into his skin. A night without shaking the angel awake, drawing him back to a reality where he had not watched Aziraphale dissolve in Holy Water or struck asunder with searing flames or Falling.

The dreams of Falling were always the worst for him. One or other of them Falling. Himself, reaching out, trying to catch Aziraphale. Or worse, the ground of Heaven giving way under him and Aziraphale watching impassive from the sidelines as he Fell, screaming and burning, away from everything he knew and loved and built his world on. He had clawed Aziraphale’s back open in terror in the worst of them and had refused – could not comprehend the possibility – of letting go of him for almost seven hours afterwards.

One could talk away their deaths. They were both clearly alive, after all.

Falling, though…

Falling was still a possibility, no matter how infinitesimal.

Tonight was… good. Tonight was progress.

As the night crept onwards, the angel shifted and squirmed and eventually rearranged himself on top of Aziraphale, his head tucked under the demon’s chin, his arms looped under Aziraphale’s arms, reminding Aziraphale of a tiny monkey clutching at its mother. It had the unfortunate side effect of pushing the blankets down, but when he shivered this time, Crowley grumbled against Aziraphale’s throat and with a floomph, his wings erupted around them, a dark, warm shelter against the winter’s chill.

“You silly little sod,” Aziraphale murmured fondly, curling his arms around the angel’s body, spreading broad palms on his back. “Look at the state of you.”

Perhaps, somewhere in his slumbers, Crowley heard him. He nuzzled his face even closer and sighed, the warm gust of air rippling delightfully across Aziraphale’s throat.

“Bastard,” Aziraphale murmured happily, stroking his back.

Minute by minute, hour by hour, time ticked inexorably on.

Once or twice, Crowley stirred and tensed, but Aziraphale hummed softly, catching the tenor of the familiar mood quickly and turning it. Warm wings, warm hands, warm comforting sounds, and Crowley subsided, settling as if he had never stirred in the first place.

On and on it went, until the first blades of sunlight cut through the windows below. And still, he slept, and Aziraphale eyes were burning with relief and happiness as he hugged the angel closer.

With a surreptitious snap of his fingers, he cleared the table below, replacing everything on it with Crowley’s rare favourite treats from cafés and restaurants scattered in the four corners of the earth. It was a victory and as such, it merited a worthy celebration.

Only when he knew Crowley would get cross with him did he allow the scent of rich Turkish coffee coiled up from the table, the only scent he ever used to gently draw the angel back to the land of the caffeinated. For a moment, there was no reaction, then Crowley snuffled against his throat. His face was so close that the flutter of his lashes whispered against Aziraphale’s skin.

“S’it morning?” he mumbled.

“Mm.” Aziraphale stroked his back. “Slept well.”

“I…” With effort, sleep-muzzy and yawning, the angel sat up over him. “Yeah… think I did.” He beamed drowsily, planting his hands on Aziraphale’s belly, his wings settling across the bed around him. “Don’t remember any bad dreams.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, untroubled and glowing and ebbing with warmth. “Not one, my love.”

Honey eyes stared at him and blinked as if Crowley couldn’t quite grasp what Aziraphale was saying. “Eh?”

Aziraphale stroked a hand down Crowley’s bare thigh and smiled with absurd happiness and pride. “Not a single nightmare, my darling. You slept peacefully all night.” And, because one cannot be too soft, he added, “Aside from the point when you decided that I was your mattress and pummelled me into your position of choice…”

Crowley was still staring at him. “No nightmares?”

“No nightmares.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale pushed himself up on his elbows. “Not even one.”

Crowley’s eyes brightened and he pressed his clasped hands to his mouth, a sound half-laugh, half-sob, escaping him. “No nightmares!” His voice broke and he was laughing, reaching down to pull Aziraphale up to hug him tightly. “No fucking nightmares!”

Aziraphale wanted to give him words of celebration and pride and relief, but they all died in his throat and the best he could do was hold the angel close and press mute kisses on his bare, freckled shoulder.

Crowley’s fingers sank into his hair, drawing his head back, and kisses were pressed instead all over his face between happy laughter and happy tears and Lord, what sentimental soft baggages they were proving to be, salted smiles all over their faces.

They were both breathing hard when Crowley broke the damp kisses, pressing his brow to Aziraphale’s. “Thank you.”

“Oh, do be quiet, angel,” Aziraphale grumbled good-naturedly.

“Nope. Never.” The angel kissed away the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Thank yourself, darling,” Aziraphale protested, pinking in the cheeks. “You did it. You were the one who fought them off.”

Crowley considered him, then licked the end of his nose.

“Eugh! Angel!”

“Take my gratitude or I’ll do it again,” Crowley threatened, laughing.

“Angel!”

He darted in and licked him again.

“Stop that!”

A sloppy lick to his cheek this time.

“I’m not an ice cream!”

Another cheek firmly and soggily licked.

“Fine! You’re welcome!”

Crowley sat back in his lap smugly, eyes dancing. “And you got me coffee. I should thank you for that.”

Aziraphale squeezed his waist. “Is this what a good night’s sleep does for you?” He teased, his heart welling up with delight. Lord, it had been so long since he had ever seen Crowley so happy. “Makes you insufferably gracious?”

To his utter astonishment, Crowley scooted even closer, until his lovely naked pink body was utterly flush against Aziraphale’s tartan pyjamas. “Among other things,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and then his hips. “I’ve been keeping you up all night for months. Maybe I should… keep you up all day instead, eh?”

That was the moment that Aziraphale, demon of the pit, creature of Hell, and Fallen Angel, fell in love all over again.


	62. 2020 - February - Token

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 27 - Engrave**

“Are you going to tell me what all the fuss is about?”

Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Not until we get there,” he said. “You’ll just have to be patient.”

Aziraphale huffed dramatically, slouching back in the seat. “Honestly,” he declared. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re driving us in the direction of home?”

He would’ve had to have been blind to miss the smile that darted across the angel’s lips. “Is that what you call it now?”

The demon gazed at him, amused. “Darling, if I eat, drink and sleep in it as much as I do, then I think it’s safe to say I consider it home.” He lifted his hand to brush his knuckles down Crowley’s cheek. “Of course, anywhere is home if you’re there.”

As usual, the angel blushed puce. “Aziraphale!”

“Yes, my dove?” Aziraphale said innocently, the back of his finger following the curve of his lover’s cheekbone.

“Not while I’m driving!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh come now,” he said, though he did lower his hand. “We both know the car is doing all the work, aren’t you, my dear?”

_Everything I do,_ the radio blared, _is driven by you_.

“Told you,” Crowley said smugly.

Aziraphale snorted, rapping the dashboard. “Traitor.” Still, he settled back into the seat again, eternally grateful that he had won over the car, or at the very least, defeated the motion sickness it brought with it.

“I did wonder.” Crowley broke the comfortable silence several minutes later. “Are you– do you mind staying at the chapter house? I mean, I know how important your shop is to you and I’d hate for you to be unhappy.”

Aziraphale hoped like Hell that the well of soft, warm and exceedingly soppy feelings weren’t showing on his face. “Darling,” he said, serious in every word, “you are giving me leave to ravish an angel in a church I desecrated with my own two hands. Why on earth would I be unhappy about that? I feel positively diabolical!”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Crowley burst out laughing. “I was serious, Aziraphale! We could go anywhere! You don’t have to stay just because I’m there.”

_We could go anywhere._

It felt like an echo of another day, a much more desperate day, when everything was falling down around their ears. Only this time, he wasn’t the one desperately offering his hands, giving them a way out, an escape, safety, a _home_.

He gazed at the angel. “I like it there,” he said, reaching over and briefly clasping Crowley’s hand on the steering wheel. “I like it when we’re there. It feels…” He laughed self-consciously. “I know this sounds like romantic nonsense, but it feels like _us_. It feels like it’s meant to be _ours_.”

For once, Crowley took his eyes off the road and smiled that blinding, sunshine smile. He offered his hand and Aziraphale took it at once, lifting it to his lips and kissing Crowley’s fingers fondly.

“So… where are we going?” he asked again.

Crowley’s smile made his eyes shine. “We’re going home. I’ve got a present for you.”

Five minutes later, the gravel crunched under the tyres as Crowley drove up to the parking spot beside the chapter house. Aziraphale reached for the door, but Crowley – still holding his other hand – stopped him.

“Wait.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, flat, rectangular box with a simple ribbon around it. “I want to give you this.”

Aziraphale eyed the box, puzzled. “What is it?”

The angel held it out. “Open it and see.”

Puzzled, Aziraphale tugged on the ribbon. It unravelled into his lap and he opened the box, then carefully lifted out the contents. Several keys jingled against one another, attached to – oh for Hell’s sake – an apple-shaped silver keyring.

He laid them in his other hand, then paused, frowning and looking closer.

An apple-shaped keyring with his name engraved on it.

“Darling…”

“I know, I know,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “It’s a token thing, since you know you can walk in anyway and you’ve pretty much been living here for a year already, but I thought you’d like to have a set of keys.” He smiled, warm and welcoming and utterly drowning Aziraphale in the echoes of his love. “I mean, it _is_ our house, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s words… went.

They all went.

He touched his name. His name on Crowley’s keys. On their keys. Together. Shared. Theirs. Not just words. Not just talk. Real. Solid.

“Aziraphale?”

“We have a home,” he said. Tried to say. His voice felt brittle and sharp and broken. “We have a _home_.”

Somehow – maybe the Bentley helped – there was suddenly enough room and Crowley was in his lap, wrapping Aziraphale up in his arms. “We do,” he said as Aziraphale clung on to him. “Our home.” He nuzzled Aziraphale’s cheek. “Thank you for helping me find it.”

Aziraphale laughed shakily, burrowing his hot, wet face into the angel’s throat. “Thank Nazis, you mean.”

Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “I’d rather thank you.” He gently lifted Aziraphale’s face to his, brushing his thumb along Aziraphale’s traitorously wet cheek. “Want to go home?” He offered a playful smile. “You’ll have to let us in. I don’t have my keys with me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t contain his smile. “You’re such an idiot, darling.”

Crowley dropped a kiss on the end of his nose. “Pot, meet kettle,” he said happily, then hopped out the car and offered Aziraphale his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”


	63. 2020 - Early March - Enlightenment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 29 - Meet your maker**

Crowley hummed as he riffled through the drawers.

Technically, he was doing a much-needed spring clean, but what he was also trying to do was make some space for Aziraphale. It was a very human thing, to move in together, but it was the first time either of them had done anything of the kind, and now, they had all the logistics to deal with.

Surreptitiously, he had expanded the interior of the chapter house a bit, a couple of extra windows popping into the walls as he did so. He’d also added a broad wardrobe beneath the stairs on one side of the main door. The extra circumference meant a little more wall space, which he left blank for Aziraphale to decorate.

One of the only things that had gone untouched was his trunk, wedged under one of the deep shelves – once window seats – beneath the windows. It was almost a century old and he’d only bought it when he got the Bentley as somewhere to keep his more fragile possessions. Not that he’d had many until he took ownership of the community centre. But the items contained in it were the only ones that would never been considered for scrap or the bin.

He peered over the back of the couch when the door opened, smiling in greeting to Aziraphale. “Got your first instalment?”

Aziraphale held up a wooden crate, an idiotic dopey smile on his face. “I have a few pieces for down here,” he agreed. He stooped to set the box on the table and Crowley scrambled up, trotting around the end of the couch, curious. “Here.”

Crowley took the small brass knocker from him, frowning. “What’s this?”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Allegorical.” He leaned closer, then took it from the angel and turned it around. “There. Right way up. I thought we could put it on the front door. I mean, if you like.”

Crowley stared at it, then laughed. “A serpent wrapped around a scroll?”

“Mm.” The demon sighed. “Technically, yes, it should be the other way around, but then it would just look rather like a toilet roll with a novelty head.”

Crowley laughed, running his thumb across it. The metal was far from modern perfection, bobbled in places. He raised his eyebrows. “How long have you had this?”

Aziraphale waved an overly-casual hand. “Oh. A while. Long enough.” There was enough pink in his cheeks to suggest it was far longer than he would ever admit. He gave Crowley a hopeful smile. “Do you like it?”

Instead of replying, Crowley walked straight over to the door, opening it wide, and with a deftly-placed miracle, attached the knocker to the door. He turned back to Aziraphale with a smile.

“It’s lop-sided, darling,” the demon said, beaming.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley laughed, closing the door. “I’ve cleared out some of the drawers for you and there’s the wardrobe and some wall space. Where do you want to start?”

Aziraphale glanced around, then frowned. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but is this place a little… larger than before?”

Crowley shrugged innocently. “Maybe a little.”

The demon laughed, catching him around the waist and pulling him closer to hug him. “Always cheating, aren’t you, my dear? Creating more space so you don’t have to give up any of your little treasures?”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley replied, smushing his hand into Aziraphale’s face and pushing him back a step. “I could make it smaller too, you know. Small enough for one.”

Wide, astonished eyes stared at him, wounded. “But _darling_…”

“I could,” Crowley repeated, lips twitching. “Won’t, but _could_.”

Aziraphale sniffed, but returned to his crate, poking through it. “Is there room upstairs?”

A creak from overhead made him glance up and Crowley smiled. “There is now. Drawers under the bed and shelves beside the head of the bed.”

“Marvellous!” Aziraphale produced the ugliest monstrosity of a mug Crowley had ever seen, pure white with completely impractical wings in place of a handle. It was hideous. Crowley loved it at once. “I was thinking we could have these by the bed, so we don’t have to get up at once. A leisurely start to the morning with coffee, yes?”

“These?” Crowley said, reaching out for the cup. It was sturdy and solidly made and Lord, it was hilarious.

“Mm.” A second mug emerged from the crate, this one with horns jutting off the sides and a tail for a handle and Crowley laughed so hard that Aziraphale snatched the angel mug off him. “Careful! You’ll drop it!”

“They’re awful!” Crowley said between helpless laughs. “I love them!”

Aziraphale looked delighted. “Upstairs, then?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed happily. “Come on.” He bounded up the stairs, wanting to get a quick look at his newest additions before Aziraphale came up.

The bedframe was organic-looking. It almost seemed as if it had grown out of the curling wooden lattice that served as the only wall of the upper level. Naturally, the bedside tables had sprouted out as off-shots, coils of wood rising from the floor like stretched springs, with interlacing vine-like branches forming shelves on the lower parts and beautifully smoothed surface on the top.

“You really are quite the artist, my love,” Aziraphale said appreciatively.

“It’s just nature,” Crowley said dismissively, skirting around to his side of the bed. He reached for his small piece of security blanket that hung over the lattice above the headboard. “I should’ve thought of it before. Can’t have too many shelves.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale agreed, setting the angel mug on his side of the bed and holding out the devil one to Crowley.

“Hey!”

Aziraphale batted his eyelashes innocently. “What? Don’t think you’re fooling anyone, my dear.”

Crowley stuck out his tongue and sat down on the edge of the bed to reach over and take the black and red cup. “You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he said, setting the blanket down in his lap and turning the cup between his hands. “Mind you, this one has the better handle.” He gave Aziraphale a thoughtful look. “Never saw your tail, _demon_.”

“Of course you did,” Aziraphale said, settling down on the other side of the bed. “It was attached to the rest of my considerably longer body.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Snake-tail doesn’t count.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You and your semantics.” He sat back against the headboard, folding his hands comfortably in his lap. “We can change if you like.”

Crowley pointedly set his new mug down on his bedside table, then resumed folding the blanket. There was so little left of it now that it was the work of a couple of folds, then he smoothed it with his hand, adding another layer of miracle to keep it together.

“You’re very fond of that, aren’t you, darling?”

Crowley glanced over at him, cheeks flushing. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I laugh? I only wondered why it was something you treasure so much.”

“You’re… you’re joking, aren’t you?” Crowley said, eyeing him warily.

Aziraphale shook his head. “You have so many pieces of cloth all about your house, but that’s the only one I’ve seen you keep so close all the time. I always wondered why. I mean you called it your security blanket. Is it… enchanted or blessed or something?”

Crowley stared down at the piece of fabric in his lap.

Years – millennia – ago, Aziraphale had found him drunk and miserable and had taken care of him. There was food and there was warmth and, of course, there was the blanket he had left Crowley wrapped in when he slipped away in the morning. True, the colour had faded, and the pattern was barely visible anymore, but…

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Take a look.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows pulled down in bemusement, but he leaned forward and took the blanket and the moment his fingers touched it, Crowley could see that he felt the origins of it. Of course he would. He’d made the damned thing himself.

A small, sharp, almost pained sound caught in the demon’s throat, his eyes wide and shocked, his hand shaking so much that the blanket slipped from his fingers.

Oh.

Oh shit.

He really didn’t know.

Crowley scrambled across the bed, pushing the blanket aside and grabbing his hand. “’Ziraphale?”

The demon stared at him, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. Hot, fat tears were spilling down his face.

“Oh sod.” Crowley swung one leg over to sit on the demon’s lap and pulled him into a tight hug. He wasn’t surprised when Aziraphale latched onto him, arms almost unbearably tight around him, and he was shaking. “I thought you knew,” Crowley whispered apologetically. “I thought you were just playing silly buggers.”

Aziraphale’s fingers dug into his back in silent reproach.

Crowley nuzzled at his hair, stroking his hands in sweeping strokes down Aziraphale’s back, and when even that wasn’t enough, he unfurled his black wings, curling them around them both, shutting out everything else until there was only the sound of Aziraphale’s shivering breaths in the dark.

It took a long time for him to speak and when he did, there was a frailty in his voice Crowley had never heard before.

“You kept it.”

“Yeah.” Crowley rested his hand, warm and heavy, on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. It helped, he remembered, when he was having nightmares.

“But _why_?”

Crowley drew a circle on his skin with his thumb. Why indeed? “You were kind to me,” he said after several minutes of thought. “Everything felt so… bad then. Sharp and hard and cold and cruel. And then you…” He laughed, his own voice more than a little shaky. “You were the first person who noticed. Who cared. Who did something. Kept me warm. Kept me safe. Kept the nightmares away.” He took an unsteady breath against Aziraphale’s throat. “The blanket… it was a little bit of that. A little bit of warm and safe and keeping the nightmares away.”

Aziraphale was so still and so silent that the words seemed to drop into a void.

“Aziraphale?”

“Should’ve hated me.”

Crowley kissed his cold, damp cheek. “I know.”

“Should’ve been afraid.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Aziraphale’s chest rose and fell against his in a gust of a sigh. “Did it help?” His voice was little more than a whisper. “The blanket?”

Crowley’s own throat felt rebelliously tight. “Yeah,” he replied. “A lot.” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek again, then followed the curve of it to find his lips in their dark cocoon. “Not as much as you,” he whispered against them. “Real thing is better.”

Aziraphale’s chuckle was a little stronger. “Soft,” he breathed against Crowley’s lips.

“As pudding,” Crowley agreed. He kissed the demon again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Crowley opened his wing a crack, letting in enough to light to show the incredulous look on his face. “For the blanket, idiot.”

Aziraphale’s damp, flushed face lit in a smile. “You,” he said, hugging Crowley warmly, “are entirely welcome.” He nudged the tip of Crowley’s nose with his own. “And if your children ever stop inflicting patchwork quilts on you, I’ll be first in line to make you another.”

Crowley tightened his arms around him. “Just stay like this and that’ll be enough.”

In the half-light cutting between Crowley’s wings, Aziraphale was radiant. “As you wish, my love.”


	64. 2020 - March - Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 28 - ‘Are you afraid yet?’**

It was an odd thing, being in a relationship.

That wasn’t to say Aziraphale hadn’t indulged in them in the past, but this was a relationship that actually _meant_ something with someone he cared about. Someone he had cared about for a rather embarrassing length of his existence.

It was… quaint and rather domestic, bringing home dinner, sitting together, talking, laughing and eventually retiring to their bed together. There could be no mistakes that it was in fact their bed. Crowley insisted on it. He would never have crafted it without Aziraphale to share it with him.

They even had a particular routine on certain nights, when Aziraphale’s shop was actually open late and Crowley was occupied. Late night dumplings from Chinatown were the usual, with a side of the soporific tea that Crowley had developed a taste for after cutting wine – and any other alcohol – from his diet.

On his evening break, Aziraphale would wander down, pick up a packet of tea, then head back to the shop, fetching the dumplings after he closed up for the night.

It was a fine routine, until the evening the usual shop was out of stock of Crowley’s tea. Aziraphale tried a few other sources, but for some inexplicable reason, every shop in Chinatown had run dry.

Back at the shop, he dialled Crowley’s telephone. “Dearest, there’s been a terrible disaster!”

Crowley laughed. “What is it this time? Did someone hump your couch again?”

“That was one time!” Aziraphale said indignantly. “I have signs up now.” He flapped a hand. “No, no. Your tea, darling. I can’t find it anywhere. They said they’d order some in. Do you have enough for the next few days?”

Crowley hummed. “I should be all right for a few more days. Or you can grab something like camomile. Not quite as good, but better than nothing.”

“Oh good,” Aziraphale sagged, relieved, into his chair. “What mischief are you up to anyway?”

“Catching up on some weeding,” Crowley replied. “The kids try, but there’s always a few they miss.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “They are–”

“Hello, Crowley.”

The voice send a bolt of panic and dread down Aziraphale’s spine. Hastur. Hastur was at the community centre. Hastur was with Crowley.

Without a second thought, he leapt.

It’s safe to say that Aziraphale did not like technology. True, there were advantages to it, but he was a creature of habit, slow to change and always running a few decades behind the times.

It suited him well enough, though thanks to Crowley, he knew exactly how most of the communication machines worked, which was why he was able – if not entirely happy about it – to transport himself through the telephone connection, bursting out of Crowley’s telephone at the other end.

He barely registered the angel’s “Wah!” of surprise as a full size demon slammed into the size of his head.

He did, however, manage to steady them both to keep them from falling and – in the same moment – tucked Crowley neatly behind his body, turning a feral snarl on the other demon. Hastur hissed in response, the reptile on his head echoing him.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Crowley exclaimed, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm. “Stop that.”

“Not happening.” Aziraphale’s voice was a low rumble. That _thing_ dared to come into Crowley’s domain, their _home_, and while he wasn’t there to defend his angel.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shoved by him, planting himself in front of Aziraphale, his back to Hastur. Thoughts of diabolical blades, of Hellfire, of Crowley flinching as he was stabbed and dissolving into nothing, screamed through Aziraphale’s mind, his throat burning, lungs heaving.

And then a voice called him.

“_Aziraphale_.”

It was… it _was_ Crowley’s voice, but it was like an echo in a cavern, powerful, strong, ringing around him. Around him? The world was black and speckled with stars. No. Speckled with thousands of shining eyes in a place that Aziraphale had forgotten even existed.

He blinked, once, twice, forcing himself to focus, forcing down the images, the terror, the panic.

Crowley was in front of him. His hands framed Aziraphale’s face. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

Aziraphale groped for his arms, clutching at him. “Hastur,” he rasped. “Danger.”

Crowley shook his head. “No danger.” He pressed his brow to Aziraphale’s, offering glimpses of the demon’s first approach, of later approaches, of mugs of hot drinks, of biscuits, of a demon trying to understand why an angel would root around in the dirt, of a demon pulling weeds.

Aziraphale’s laboured breathing eased slowly, little by little. “You didn’t tell me,” he accused, chest aching and tight.

“I know.” Crowley pushed his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him close. “I’m safe. We’re safe. I’ve made sure of that. No one can hurt us here.” He nudged the tip of Aziraphale’s nose with his own. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Thought you’d think I’d gone soft.” He paused, considered and added, “Er.”

Aziraphale squeezed his arms. “He came to kill you.”

“And he didn’t manage,” Crowley murmured. “I know what he is. I know he Fell. I know how much that terrified me. I can only imagine what it was like for you and for him. Why would I hurt him again? Make him believe everything he’s ever been told about angels?” He shook his head. “I have to be better than that. Better than they were to me.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then dropped his hands to Crowley’s waist and pulled him closer, burying his face in the angel’s shoulder. “Soft,” he mumbled against the angel’s mucky t-shirt.

“Always have been,” Crowley said gently.

The demon took a shuddering breath and exhaled. “Why him?”

“Because he came,” Crowley murmured, stroking the back of his neck. “He was hurt. He was angry. I think he was scared. But he still went against their orders because he had to do_ something_.” He could feel the weak twitch of Aziraphale’s lips against his shoulder. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale lifted his head, searching Crowley’s face. “Don’t put yourself in danger, darling. I couldn’t bear it.”

Crowley kissed him firmly. “I put the fear of Me into him,” he said. “He knows I’m playing nice for now, so he’s playing nice too. He knows if he tries anything, I can and will show him why that was a mistake.”

There was fire in his honey eyes and it would have taken a far stronger demon not to find the combination of frailty and fury intoxicating. Lord, if this was what he was like as an Archangel, treading in the starlight of a thousand eyes, blazing with the heat of the sun…

“Aziraphale?”

“Mm?”

The sunny grin split the angel’s face. “You’re staring.”

Aziraphale nodded, smiling unsteadily. “You’ve quite... dazzled me, my love.”

“Oh, shush.” Crowley tugged on his hair, though it didn’t stop him blushing. “Now, can we get back to my guest? With manners this time?”

Aziraphale nodded, reluctantly, and at once the world faded in around them and Crowley was no longer scattered with stars or shining like a solar wave. He stroked Aziraphale’s cheek, then stepped back and turned with a smaller smile, the smile he kept for his humans – no, for the people he chose to offer his hand to. No longer just humans, that smile.

Hastur eyed Aziraphale guardedly. “I shouldn’t stay.”

“Of course you should,” Crowley said warmly. “Aziraphale needs to get back to his shop, don’t you, love?”

As much as he hated the thought of it, as much as it pained him to retreat, leaving Crowley in the company of another denizen of Hell, Aziraphale nodded. If that was what Crowley wanted and was certain he could do, then he would step back and trust him to be well.

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt Crowley’s lessons,” he said as calmly as he could, fighting down the desire to strike out, defend, protect.

Crowley turned that sunshine smile on him, melting away the knot of panic that lingered. “I’ll see you this evening,” he said, every word a promise. “Don’t forget my dumplings.”

He couldn’t help himself, stepping in closer and claiming a kiss from his lover. Not possessive, no, but a reminder to the angel that he was both loved and trusted, then – without a backwards glance – he made himself walk towards the gate.

Only when he was outside did he sink against the wall, taking gulping breaths. It was one thing to trust one’s lover, he thought, his fingertips curling shards out of the brickwork, but it was another to trust a demon like Hastur.

But Crowley… Crowley was right. He was too good and he was right. He had to be better than the ones who came before him and for that reason alone, Aziraphale kept walking, trusting the angel to protect himself and their home.


	65. 2020 - March - Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 30 - “Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.”- Emily Dickinson**

Soho was as busy as ever when Crowley drew up outside the shop.

The lights were partially off already, which meant Aziraphale was already closing up, so Crowley sat back in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then sighed and swung out of the car into the crisp night air.

There was no use hurrying the demon, so he sat up on the bonnet, letting his legs dangle, and leaned back on his hands, waiting.

There was nothing to be worried about. He’d made that clear, but he couldn’t help suspecting that Aziraphale was wearing out a hole in his floor, fretting. Demons didn’t trust anyone, especially not each other. It just… wasn’t what they did. Or so they liked to believe.

Five minutes turned into ten and he swung his feet impatiently.

Okay, there was no hurrying the demon, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t start jingling the bell above the shop door with a carefully-placed miracle. After two minutes of incessant ringing, he beamed when the door was yanked open. The ire faded from Aziraphale’s face and oh, he tried, but he wasn’t quite able to hide the relief in his eyes.

“Darling!” He leaned in the doorframe, trying for casual, but managing to look anything but. “You should have come in!”

“And delayed closing by another ten minutes?” Crowley laughed. He slid down off the car. “Thought I could give you a lift home tonight.”

Aziraphale did his level best to look nonchalant. “Is this because the dumplings were cold last week?”

Crowley wandered over to him, leaning in to kiss him firmly. “You know why.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the car. “Come on. I’m starving.”

It was a lie and they both knew it, but Aziraphale grasped onto it with both hands.

“A moment,” he said, pushing himself off from the doorframe and vanishing back into the shop. When he emerged, he was wearing his overcoat and carrying two large paper bags that somehow gave off the scent of steam and succulent food without leaking even a little steam or grease. “I _was_ just closing up.”

“I know.” Crowley circled the car to open the door for him, waiting until he was settled before closing it. He took a steadying breath. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to delay coming home, especially not when he’d already done the food run. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t help notice that Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead. “All right?”

“Mm.”

Crowley worried his lower lip as they pulled away from the pavement. Under Aziraphale’s hands, the handles of the bag were crumpling.

“Did you have a… pleasant afternoon?” Aziraphale said carefully when they turned off Shaftesbury avenue and wove south east.

“It was fine,” he said, glancing at him. Aziraphale’s focus was on the bags now, and his white-knuckled hands. Crowley reached over with one hand to clasp them and Aziraphale glanced up to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Aziraphale looked and sounded lost.

“For trusting me,” Crowley replied.

Aziraphale nodded mutely, uncurling one hand to clutch at his. His grip was almost painfully tight, but Crowley could understand why. To leave someone – anyone – he cared about in the presence of an enemy had to be the worst kind of trial. But he had done it. Had had trusted Crowley’s strength and God, Crowley had never loved him quite so much.

“I know it wasn’t easy for you to walk away like that,” he said, stroking his thumb along Aziraphale’s. “I know you don’t trust him.”

“Well, he did come with the intention of killing you, darling.” Aziraphale’s voice was brittle. “I consider myself justified.”

“I know.” Crowley hesitated, then pulled the car in to the side of the road. Traffic flowed on by, barely noticing them anymore. “Do you know why he came? Do you know why he came after me?”

Aziraphale scowled. “Thought you were weaker.”

“No.” Crowley leaned closer, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to press it to his chest. “He wanted to hurt _you_.”

Aziraphale frowned in confusion. “Because everyone knows you’re mine?”

“And because you took his best friend from him.” Crowley reminded him gently. “He wanted you to hurt like he was hurting.”

A shiver ran through the demon’s body. “Ligur.”

“Mm.”

It had taken a lot of careful work and patience to draw the truth out of Hastur, who was so caught up in the rage and didn’t know how to quantify or process the reality that was the grief.

Demons didn’t die. Immortality was both the blessing and the curse of creatures of angelic stock. And he had seen his friend die in front of him and didn’t have the capacity or experience to know how to deal with it.

Crowley, on the other hand, had dealt with it year in, year out. Walking among the humans did that to an angel, especially one who cared.

And so he offered words and when Hastur needed it, a shoulder, a hot drink and, one heart-breaking night, a box of tissues. Demons weren’t meant to weep. They weren’t meant to care. They weren’t meant to _feel_. All lies. You can change the name of a creature, but you can’t change where it came from and what it was.

No matter how many millennia went by, angel or demon, they were two sides of the same coin, not as different as they tried to believe.

“It was him or me, then,” Aziraphale said quietly, tentatively. “You know I would only have done such a thing in direst need.”

“I know,” Crowley said, squeezing his fingers. “After everything that happened, after what they tried to do to both of us…” He shook his head. “I can’t judge you for getting out of danger the only way you could. I don’t blame you for doing it.”

“I don’t feel guilty about it,” Aziraphale said quietly. “What does that tell you?”

Crowley abandoned his seat, lifting the bags of dumplings from Aziraphale’s lap to deposit them in the back seat. He settled himself in their place and took the demon’s face between his hands. “We were facing Armageddon,” he said. “We both did what we needed to.”

Aziraphale knocked his brow against the angel’s. He looked exhausted.

“I was scared,” he confided in the softest of whispers. “When I heard his voice on the telephone, I was _terrified_.”

“I could tell.” Nothing had surprised him as much as Aziraphale cascading out of his mobile and almost knocking him flying. He ran his thumb along the demon’s cheek. “He couldn’t hurt me, even if he wanted to. Not in my place. Not on my terms.”

Aziraphale pulled him closer, hugging him tightly. “I don’t have to like it, do I, darling?”

“Course not.” Crowley kneaded the back of his neck. “As long as you can be civil to each other, that’s all I ask.”

Aziraphale subsided into silence, resting his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. One hand moved in idle circles on the angel’s back. “Angel?”

“Hm?”

“What does he _want_?”

Crowley stroked the curls at the back of Aziraphale’s head gently. “He’s… curious. I don’t think he’s ever thought about anything but what he was before. Struck down as an angel, then stuck as a demon. I don’t think he wanted to think about anything.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale exhaled softly. “Yes. It’s… hard to think about it. Painful.”

And it had been the blade over Crowley’s neck for so long that he couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror that was living with it, day in, day out, knowing what had been taken from you and what you could never get back. And that those who had once been your brethren and cared for you had turned on you.

Well, he had experienced that part well enough to know he could never treat any angel, even a Fallen one, like that.

He nuzzled Aziraphale’s cheek. “Let’s go home, eat all the dumplings and go to bed.”

Aziraphale leaned back a little way to meet his eyes. “You’re tired?”

“Not really,” Crowley said with a crooked smile, “but I wouldn’t mind spending the night keeping each other warm, would you? It’s been a bit of a stressful day for both of us, I think.” He stroked the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “You can read some more of your book for me, if you want? I like it when you read.”

“That,” Aziraphale said fervently, “sounds wonderful.”


	66. 2020 - April - Home Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale frowned at his book, closing it and setting it down on the arm of the couch. He tapped the fingertips of his other hand lightly on the cover. “I’m keeping my shop,” he said. “I mean, you know that already, but as a repository for the large part of my collection.”  
“Yeah.” Crowley stifled a yawn in the back of his hand. “Never thought you’d give it up anyway.”

“Darling.”

“Hm?”

Aziraphale’s fingers curled into his hair and Crowley tilted his head, peering sleepily up at him. They were sprawled on the couch while Aziraphale read, Crowley’s head pillowed on the demon’s lap. A blanket was tangled around them, the one concession to the blustery April weather.

“S’a matter?”

Aziraphale frowned at his book, closing it and setting it down on the arm of the couch. He tapped the fingertips of his other hand lightly on the cover. “I’m keeping my shop,” he said. “I mean, you know that already, but as a repository for the large part of my collection.”

“Yeah.” Crowley stifled a yawn in the back of his hand. “Never thought you’d give it up anyway.”

“But…” The demon frowned, as if he was trying to pick his words carefully. “Well, there are one or two books I would rather like to bring with me, now that I’m living here, if you didn’t mind. Ones I hold in high esteem.”

Crowley was frowning too, confused. “That’s what the shelves are for,” he pointed out, waving to the stretch of unfilled shelving along the newest stretch of wall. “You can put anything you want there.”

“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale smoothed his fingers through Crowley’s hair again. “You see, there’s one in particular and I wasn’t sure if you would – if it wouldn’t be an unwelcome reminder of unhappier times.”

Any sleepiness evaporated. “Oh. Right. My book.”

Aziraphale nodded, hesitating, then shifting his hand to Crowley’s throat and down to his chest. “I can understand if you would prefer it to remain there, but I– well, you know how fond I am of it.”

With effort, Crowley sat up. “Don’t worry.”

Aziraphale gave him such a naked, helpless look, peeled raw and vulnerable. “But I _do_, darling. That’s the trouble. I worry so about you. I would hate to cause you any distress purely because I want to keep my treasures close.”

Crowley crawled into his lap and wrapped his arms around the demon. “You’re too good to me.”

Broad hands stroked in circles on his back. “I try to be,” Aziraphale murmured, nuzzling his cheek. “If you’d prefer–”

Crowley sat back far enough to look at him. “It was never the book that hurt me,” he said, lifting his hand to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek. “Not once. Everyone else. They were the problems. You and the book? No. You never did me any harm.” He smiled, knocking their brows together. “I _love_ that you love it. Bring it. Make it ours.”

A relieved laugh shuddered out of Aziraphale. “Oh, I _am_ glad,” he confided, squeezing Crowley’s waist. “I hate the thought of leaving it in the shop when I’m not about, especially not when I – when it’s something of such importance.”

Crowley smiled, stroking his cheek. “Hardly important,” he said.

“But it is,” Aziraphale said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It came from you.”

“Gnaaaah!” Crowley clapped his hands over his own face. “Shaddup!”

Aziraphale burst into a wonderful peal of laughter. “I shan’t!” he declared, grasping Crowley’s wrists at once and pulling his hands away. “Let me see, darling! You have such a wonderful range of colours.”

“Bullying me!” Crowley wailed, half-heartedly squirming and tugging against his hands. “Tormenting me! Foul fiend! Evil monstrous wretch!”

Aziraphale pulled him inexorably closer and pressed a warm kiss to each bare, pale forearm. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it, my angel?” He added another kiss to each palm, warm and lingering, then set to work on each fingertip.

“’Ziraphale!” Crowley protested, wriggling for an entirely different reason.

Wide blue eyes stared innocently back at him and then Aziraphale sucked on his finger.

“GNAH!”

“Oh you _like_ that do you?” Aziraphale’s smile broadened into a predatory grin. “That’s useful to know.”

“No! No! Definitely absolut– fnaaaaah!!” Crowley bit down on his lower lip, pummelling his other fist uselessly against Aziraphale’s chest, as each finger was worshipped by the demon’s tongue and lips. “You– that– NOT FAIR!”

Aziraphale only laughed and kissed his palm once more, then uncurled his finger to release Crowley’s wrist. “Not tonight, I think,” he said, slipping his arms back around Crowley’s waist. A tug brought the angel flush against him, nose to nose. “Though I wouldn’t say no to some more of this.”

Crowley mock-glowered at him. “I should leave you down here. Go to bed _alone_.”

Aziraphale cupped his cheek tenderly. “I know, darling,” he murmured sympathetically, kissing the crease at the corner of Crowley’s lips. “You ought to.” Crowley’s cheek was likewise indulged. “But you won’t, will you?”

Crowley shivered pleasantly as warm breath rippled against his throat. “Don’t say I’m not an angel of mercy,” he said with a put-upon sigh and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. The chuff of a laugh against his ear made him smile. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say a word,” Aziraphale murmured, sounding equally happy, as he utterly enveloped Crowley in his arms and buried his face in the angel’s shoulder.


	67. 2020 - June - Treasures

“What’re you doing?”

Crowley slammed the lid of the chest shut. “Nothing.” Of course, he realised in hindsight that that was the most unlikely way to make himself look like he was doing nothing. “Er. Tidying some stuff.”

Aziraphale hung his coat on a peg by the door, then draped himself on the couch. “Ah, yes. Your box of treasures.” He propped his arm on the back of the couch, gazing down at Crowley. “You know I could break into that if I really wanted to poke through your things.”

Crowley made a face at him. “Well, I wouldn’t’ve thought of that, but now I will, thanks.” He scrambled up and swung himself over the back of the couch, sprawling out between Aziraphale’s feet. “You won’t, will you?”

The demon gave him one of those stupidly soft, affectionate looks. “Of course not, my dove. As curious as I am about your precious things, I honestly don’t know if I could take it if I find out you’ve got a whole collection of random things I gave you in the past.”

Sometimes, Crowley thought as his ears flamed red, it would be very convenient to have full control of his entire corporation. “Erk.”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him. “You… do?”

“Not everything!” Crowley protested defensively. “Just… some stuff. Things. Bits and pieces. And not all from you either!” He hunched into his corner of the couch. “You’d make fun of me.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, playfully running a hand up his leg. “My dearest, I have always and will always make fun of you.” He slid forward a little, slipping himself neatly between Crowley’s thighs. “Honestly, if it makes you feel better, you ought to see the upper room in the bookshop.”

Crowley’s brain screeched to a halt. “I– there’s an upper room?”

“Mm.” Blue eyes danced. “I always prepared for any eventuality. I even had a bed, should you wish to… partake with me.” He scooped up Crowley’s hand, daintily kissing his palm. “And the offer is open, should you–”

“’Ziraphale,” Crowley groaned, blushing. “Having a sex den set up isn’t the same as keeping a bunch of stuff!”

The demon raised his eyebrows and the air around them tightened like a balloon pulled taut, then relaxed with a pop. A warm bright room surrounded them, pale walls and warm heavy curtains around the windows. And they were definitely on a bed.

Aziraphale lounged back against the foot of the heavy wooden bedframe and spread his hand extravagantly. “Behold!”

Crowley sat up, staring around. “What’s this?”

“Not how you imagined a sex den?” Aziraphale said dryly, raising his eyebrows. “Lord, I’m such a disappointment.”

Crowley’s receding blush returned. “Um.” It definitely wasn’t what he’d expected. In fact, it was as warm and neat and welcoming as the chapter house. Similar colours. Wooden beside cabinets. Shelves on the walls. A daybed with a blanket slung over it. A painting of…

“Wait a minute…”

He scrambled off the bed, approaching the painting on the wall. It was of a narrow street, nothing spectacular or iconic. There was something familiar about the snugly packed buildings, the flagstones, the blue sky.

“Rome,” Aziraphale murmured from the bed.

Crowley stared at it.

Oh. Yes. That was the street where he’d… where…

He touched the canvas, the paint uneven under his fingers. “We went there. You… you stayed with me there.”

“We did.”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. Aziraphale wasn’t lounging now. He was sitting up, watching, and for someone who knew him as well as Crowley did, he was nervous. Good at hiding it, but it was there in the tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his smile.

He’d wanted Crowley to see this room and it wasn’t just because of the painting.

Nerves fluttered like butterflies in his belly as he turned and paid attention to the shelves along the wall. The collection of items arranged there were eclectic, but as soon as he picked up one, examined it and realised, recognised, what it was, the others all made a kind of sense too.

There, a pendant carved from ivory in the shape of a serpent, patterned with gold. 14th century, Mali. And there, a raw opal he’d dug out of the ground during a retreat in Australia before it was ever called that. Brilliant turquoise and given to the person whose eyes matched it. A packing tablet from the palace in China, the ancient wood held together with miracles. And there, a battered clay mug, London, 1600s. Used to toast the success of a certain play.

And there, at the very end, the eldest, small and insignificant to mortal eyes, but throbbing with the power of an angel’s blessing. A pebble plucked from a stream and placed in the hands of a shepherd boy. Retrieved from a field, the ancient bloodstains faded to nothing.

His heart had somehow scrambled north and settled in his throat.

Shelf by shelf, ledge by ledge, item by item, it was a chronological catalogue of their encounters, some important, others he hadn’t thought about in centuries.

“You see.” Aziraphale sounded much quieter than usual, much more vulnerable. “Don’t imagine you’re not the only sentimentalist in this little arrangement.”

Crowley had to blink suddenly-clouded eyes, his breath hitching. “You soft bugger,” he managed to get out before his voice betrayed him. “All of this?”

“My favourites,” Aziraphale replied quietly.

Crowley spun to face him where he was sitting at the end of the bed. Aziraphale smiled tentatively.

“You can’t say you didn’t know.”

Crowley shook his head, his eyes wet. “I always forget,” he said, walking back towards the bed.

“Forget what?”

Crowley leaned down and kissed him. “How much love you’ve got inside you.” He kissed Aziraphale’s rapidly warming cheek. “You love _so_ much. I always… I forget. I keep forgetting. It’s like a bottomless well with you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale grumbled, ducking his head.

Crowley swung himself over the end of the bed, plopping himself down in the demon’s lap. “Won’t. Can’t make me.” He wriggled closer, planting smaller kisses all over Aziraphale’s glowing face.

“Dearest!” Aziraphale half-laughed, half-groaned. “I have a reputation to uphold!”

“Says the demon with the secret museum to our dates,” Crowley countered, grinning at him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you kept the receipts!”

“Well, you kept my blanket!”

“I was cold!”

“Semantics!” Aziraphale hoisted him up more snugly into his lap, his arms twined snugly around Crowley’s body. “So…” He nuzzled the tip of Crowley’s nose. “Will you show me what you have in your treasure chest?”

Crowley stroked his cheek fondly with his thumb. “Soon,” he said. “I just… it’s… some of it’s special for me. Stuff from before you. Before us. Everything.”

Aziraphale tilted his head to kiss Crowley’s palm gently. “It’s not necessary, my dove. Not if you don’t want to. You know I only ask because I’m a nosy bastard.”

Crowley smiled and kissed him again. “My nosy bastard.” He laughed against Aziraphale’s lips. “With a museum, no less.”

Aziraphale stroked the length of his back. “Oh, this is only my special collection. I’m far, _far_ worse.” He gave Crowley a wide, hopeful grin. “Will you kiss me more if I show you more?”

“How is it,” Crowley said, fighting a snicker, “that you always make everything sound absolutely filthy?”

The demon pressed a hand to his heart. “Many, many, many years of hard work and practise, my dear. So hard. So very, very hard.”

Crowley burst out laughing and squashed his palm in Aziraphale’s face. “Ugh!”

Aziraphale beamed into his touch and kissed the heel of his hand again. “And you adore it.”

Crowley tweaked his nose happily. “And no one would ever believe you if you told them.”

Aziraphale just laughed and tilted back, tipping them into the pile of cushions and bedding.


	68. 2020 - June - Study

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the timeline has been royally forked by reality, but hush :P I started, so I'll finish.

The weather had turned chilly, rain lashing down outside, when someone rapped at the door of the house. From the living room, Marjorie heard Shadwell grumble in his chair.

“Shall I get that, love?” she called through the hatch into the living room, setting down the dishcloth on the drying rack. They’d moved out of the city, a bit to the north and west, where someone with a sensible amount saved could easily afford a modest little bungalow with all the home comforts.

“I’ll see it done,” Shadwell continued to grumble and she chuckled as he plodded to the door on the far side of the living room. He’d managed to terrorise a few of their neighbours just after they moved in, but now, everyone was coming to see him for the soft old grump he really was. “Jesus Christ!”

At his yell of alarm, she bustled through, stopping dead at the sight of him waving a hefty wooden cross at the face of their visitor.

“Now, now, duck,” she chastised, hurrying to his side and prying the cross out of his hands. “What have we discussed about door to door salesmen?”

Shadwell’s eyes rolled wildly. “He’s no a salesman! He’s that divil from London!”

Marjorie peered out into the gloomy night and a sheepish angel waved in greeting.

“Oh Heavens!” she exclaimed, pushing Shadwell to one side. “Mr. Crowley! Come in!”

“Marjorie, hen!” Shadwell protested.

“Oh shush.” She shooed him back. “Mr. Crowley’s no more a devil than you are.” She looked the angel up and down. “You’re drenched, love. Come through to the kitchen and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea.”

Mr. Crowley smiled gratefully. “Sorry to show up unannounced.”

“Better than announcing it,” she said with a laugh. “Did some reading on angels, I did. All that be-not-afraid and glowing would’ve given me a right turn. I’ll take a nice polite knock at the door any time.”

She ushered him into the kitchen and shut the door behind them. Beyond it, Shadwell huffed in outrage and thundered through to the living room, so she shut the hatch and locked it too.

“He’ll just make a fuss otherwise,” she said, gesturing for the angel to take a seat. “And I expect if you’ve come for a little chat, it’s not something you’ll want him earwigging in on.”

To her delight and amusement, the angel went as red as his hair. “Um,” he said.

Marjorie had known a lot of men in her time and it seemed like a man-shaped angel could be as flustered and awkward as the best of them. She filled the kettle and put it on to boil, then sat down at the table and – after a moment of hesitation – reached out and clasped his hand.

“What’s the bother, pet?”

He squirmed and flushed. “You… when we were… when I…” He flapped a hand at her. “You know how I feel about my friend, don’t you?”

Her smile softened. “And how he feels about you, I’d wager. The look on his face when he saw you…” She nodded. “What about him?”

The angel’s hand trembled under hers. “The thing is– I mean it’s stupid but–” He huffed in frustration. “Look, he likes physical stuff. Loves it. Always has. Does it all for fun and pleasure and everything. Hell’s bells, he even sells stuff in his shop and I… don’t.”

“Don’t?” she prompted.

“Don’t…” Another vague, helpless wave of his hand. “I don’t do _that_.”

Oh!

“You’re a virgin?”

He made a face. “In the human sense, I s’pose so.” He gave her a small, helpless look, peeled naked and painfully vulnerable. “I don’t _do_ those parts. Don’t want them. Don’t need them. But I–” His expression crumpled. “I don’t want him not to have what he loves. And I’d– I want to surprise him.”

She gave his hand a warm squeeze. “That won’t be a problem, duck.” She smiled and got up to make the tea. “You might need to narrow things down a bit for me.” She returned to the table with the teapot and a couple of mugs. “Have you done anything with him before?”

Once again, the angel turned scarlet. “A bit.”

“How much is a bit?” she prompted gently, fetching milk from the fridge.

“Kissing. And touching. And… and I’ve put my hands on his… thing a few times.”

She nodded thoughtfully, pouring tea as he’d liked it the first time they met. “And he enjoys that?”

That made him grin shyly. “Yeah. Very quickly.”

Marjorie chuckled. “No small wonder, if he dotes on you as much he seemed to.” She stirred in some sugar and slid the mug towards him. “And you enjoy it?”

The angel frowned, as if he hadn’t considered the question before. “I enjoy seeing him enjoy it,” he said after a moment. “Knowing I made him come apart like that.”

“So you’re both getting something out of it,” she said, smiling. “That’s what it should be. Something loving and mutual that you can both enjoy, even if you’re enjoying it in different ways.”

“Even though I don’t…” He waved a hand vaguely to his groin.

“The intimacy is the matter, love,” she said gently. “He’s clearly more than happy with who you are and what you’ll willingly share with him. If he’s demanding more, that’s when you need to have a talk with him.”

“Oh! No! No, he’s not! He’d never–” He took a mouthful of tea, blushing again. “I just…” Turn-turn-turn went the mug in his hands. “Is it silly I want to give him more? Something different?”

“And see him come apart even more?” She couldn’t help laughing when the angel made a squeaky sound. “No, love. If that’s your pleasure, no small wonder.” She considered him. “Do you fancy accessories? Human-style ones?”

He chewed his lip. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I thought you might– I mean, you know things.”

He looked so lost and hopeful and her heart went out to him.

“You wait here,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Shadwell pounced as soon as she came out of the kitchen. “What heathen corruption is he after now?”

She pushed him back gently so she could trot into the bedroom and around to her side of the bed. “He’s an angel of the Lord, pet. I doubt he’d know a heathen corruption if it bit him.” She rooted around in her bedside cabinet. “Ah!”

This time, Shadwell was the one who turned mauve at the sight. “What the hell are you doing with those, wumman!”

“I’m only showing Mr. Crowley,” she said, carrying the box back around the end of the bed. “Don’t you worry. They’ll still be there later. They’re not going anywhere.”

She left him spluttering and red-faced and went back to join the angel in the kitchen, opening the box and laying out a selection of her preferred toys on the kitchen table. They all shone like new and he stared at them, wide-eyed.

“I-I thought they were for self-use,” he stammered.

“They can be,” she confirmed, “but you can use them on him, if he likes.” She withdrew the harness from the box. “And here…” She fitted one of the toys into the array of belts and buckles. “You put this on like a belt. You don’t even need to have any downstairs arrangement to use it.”

Wide honey eyes stared at it. “Er…”

She chuckled, setting it back in the box. “But you can start gently too.” She tapped one of the vibrators. “This one stimulates parts of the body on contact with vibra…” She paused, staring at him. “You’re an angel, love. You have… you know… angel powers? Magic and that?”

“I don’t know about vibrating,” Crowley said, pink to the ears.

She waved a hand. “No, no, no. When you did that possession thing, you were kind and calming and reassuring. I felt every bit of it. Have you tried other emotions? Would you be able to do that with him?”

He blinked at her. “I… maybe?” He chewed his lip then held out a hand. “Can I try something?”

“Nothing saucy,” she warned with a wink as she took his hand.

He laughed, more confidently now. “Nothing saucy,” he promised. “Tell me what you feel.”

She closed her eyes, then laughed too. “Giddiness. Proper summer holiday when you’re a kid kind of thing.”

“Now?”

“Hunger?”

“And now?”

The tide of gratitude knocked her back in her seat. “Lord…”

The angel was practically glowing. “That’s it! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!”

“Well, I’m glad I brought out all my toys for nothing,” she teased, chuckling.

He glanced at them, pinking again. “Maybe for a special occasion.”

He leaned across the space between them and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Or maybe more than a kiss, from the sense of peace and contentment that washed through her. She closed her eyes with a shivering sigh and when she opened them again, he was gone.


	69. 2020 - July - Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October Prompts #6 - ‘I can’t decide if this is the best, or the worst way to die’

Aziraphale couldn’t recall the last time he had stayed at the bookshop overnight.

Oh, he was there often enough during the day. He had business to attend to after all, but his evenings were usually spent in the chapter house and his nights found him in Crowley’s bed, the angel wrapped up in his arms.

Sometimes they talked into the small hours of the morning. Sometimes, they would watch some nonsense on Crowley’s outsized television. Sometimes – and he had to admit he was partial to those particular occasions – Crowley would soften into his embrace and spend hours just kissing him.

Only kissing, of course, and occasionally, he would pet and caress the angel until Crowley was reduced to a shivering mess in his arms. But all quite innocent.

It was something he had known for as long as he had known the angel. Sex was not – and would never be – on the table. It was a shame, because he always found it rather fun, but he knew Crowley was discomfited by the concept of changing more than the mere surface appearance of his body. It was not something to push for, not for his own indulgence.

On some memorable occasions, Crowley had taken him in hand and he had spent himself like an inexperienced lad and they had both laughed about it. They could do things like that. Crowley thought it was hilarious and took great pleasure in tutting and sighing about how quickly he finished.

And so, it came as quite the surprise when, on a warm Sunday morning, a naked angel climbed on top of him, pinning him place with knees on either side of his ribs.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Crowley smiled down at him. In the year since Armageddon, there was a healthier glow about him, his eyes brighter, his cheeks rosier, and his smile much more frequent. “I have a present for you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Do you trust me?”

“Well, obviously, my darling…”

Crowley held up both hands, palms out. “I want to try something.”

Aziraphale, puzzled, lifted his hands and pressed them palm-to-palm with the angel’s. “What…” He cleared his throat. “Darling, you don’t _need_ to do anything physical. I know you don’t–” A thrill of _something_ surged through his blood, making his breath hitch, like a spark at the point where his hands met Crowley’s. “Oh!”

Crowley’s honey eyes shone, and he folded his fingers between Aziraphale’s. “You might want to hold on,” he warned.

Aziraphale blinked stupidly at him then gasped out as another surge of… oh Lord…

His hands clutched at Crowley’s. “Angel!” he croaked, his feet digging into the bed beneath him. “Wh-what is that?”

Crowley squeezed his fingers, leaning forward over him. “_Bliss_.”

Aziraphale’s words were strangled by the moan rising in his throat and it only got worse as Crowley laid himself down over Aziraphale’s chest. Every point of contact was like a surge of the best and most overwhelming pleasure imaginable, making him writhe and shudder and when Crowley’s lips ghosted over his, he halfway to sobbing.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s words were a star-hot breath against his lips, every whisper a fresh surge, stealing Aziraphale’s breath away, his body arching up, his hands squeezing Crowley’s desperately tight. “I love you. I love every part of you, you filthy terrible wonderful person.”

“Oh _fuck_…” Aziraphale keened.

Crowley smiled against his lips. “No, love,” he breathed, that beautiful bastard smile on his face. “Something _better_.”

And when he kissed Aziraphale, the demon’s world went white, the surge of pleasure and love and adoration burning through him like fire. He probably screamed. Certainly. Didn’t hear it himself, but probably. Definitely cried. Definitely was still crying when his world tuned back into reality, his chest heaving and his face wet.

There was, he thought dazedly, a brief moment where he was almost sure he was about to come apart from pleasure. Not simply apart, but utterly _undone_. His mortal shell fractured into a thousand pieces by _love_. Both the best and worst of ways to shatter.

Crowley gently wiggled his fingers free of one of Aziraphale’s hands and brushed the still-flowing tears from one cheek, kissing the tears from the others.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I wanted to show you.”

Aziraphale lifted his trembling hand to wrap it around the angel’s back, pulling him to lie flush over him. No words left. He stared mutely at the ceiling slanting above them and shivered pleasantly as Crowley sighed, soft and warm, against his sweat-damp skin.

“I didn’t hurt you?” Crowley murmured against his throat. He sounded so worried that Aziraphale swallowed hard and gathered his wits that were scattered around like confetti.

“N-not at all,” he breathed in slowly and out, Crowley rising and sinking with his ribs. “I– overwhelmed. It–” Another swallow in a mouth bone dry. “Darling… I didn’t… is… how?”

Crowley lifted his head to look at him. “I know a lot of things,” he admitted. “About body, mind and soul.” He smiled that adorable crooked, self-conscious smile of his. “I’m not good with the words or the… human squishy stuff… so I wanted to show you how I felt my way.”

Oh _Lord_…

“That– that was _you_? All that?”

“Mm.” The angel worried his lip. “I mean, I know it’s weird, but–”

Aziraphale caught him by the back of the head and claimed his lips gently. Crowley relaxed into his embrace, then buried his face back in Aziraphale’s throat.

“That,” Aziraphale murmured, squeezing Crowley’s hand in his, “is definitely far superior to… what did you call it? Human squishy stuff?”

Crowley gave a laugh so small and bashful it was almost a giggle.

“Though,” Aziraphale added, his other hand settling back between Crowley’s shoulderblades, “if you feel the need to do it again, perhaps a little notice?” He tilted his head to kiss Crowley’s hair. “You… _do_ plan to do it again?”

Crowley’s smile was soft against his throat. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

Aziraphale beamed at the ceiling. “You, my love, are an incorrigible monster.”

Crowley snuggled closer. “I learned from the best.”

You know, Aziraphale thought fondly, perhaps you did.


	70. 2020 - August - Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October Prompt 31 - Wicked**
> 
> This may be the last of the October prompts, but I don't doubt I'll write more of these clowns :)
> 
> **This chapter comes with a highest-rating warning, just fyi** :)

Life had settled into a comfortable kind of routine.

Technically, they were both two indolent, unemployed layabouts, but because one couldn’t really change one’s nature or the duties of many, many lifetimes, Aziraphale still found himself habitually tempting the unwary, while – unsurprisingly – Crowley’s acts of mercy and good deeds and miracles bloomed out from him like solar flares.

Occasionally, Aziraphale had returned to his shop from a minor temptation and found Crowley waiting for him with lunch. Every time the blessed creature came into the shop, it still gave Aziraphale a little flutter of wonder. No matter that they lived in the same place and spent their nights in one another’s arms, it was still a delight to see Crowley sitting there, smiling in greeting.

It didn’t hurt that he’d been working in Soho as well, from time to time.

New charities, particularly for at-risk young people, had sprung up. He didn’t even have to do anything more than can-rattle for them and profits went through the roof. And the fact he occasionally can-rattled near Aziraphale’s door led more people to the shop.

Somehow, in spite of everything, both parts of their lives managed to fit together so neatly.

It was… nice. Not just the fact that it all worked so beautifully, but that he had _someone_ to go home to. That he had a home with someone who – for some utterly incomprehensible reasons – loved him, where he was accepted exactly as he was, overindulgences and all.

The useful thing, he thought, about being in London was that they didn’t even really have to go far to fulfil the nagging little quotas at the back of their minds. He’d never needed to spend a night away from Crowley, not since the day they had turned their back on their respective head offices and sauntered into the sunset.

The phone rang on his desk and he picked it up. “That had better be you, darling.”

Crowley snorted. “One day, you’ll get a customer when you do that.”

“Oh I have,” Aziraphale said, grinning. “They believe it’s all part of the service.”

He could hear the angel stifling his laughter. “Course they do.” There was a grunt as he must have thrown himself down on a chair. “Listen, what time are you going to be home tonight?”

Aziraphale glanced up at the clock. It was after four already. “I can finish any time, darling.”

There was a contemplative silence on the other end. “Can you make it seven o’clock? I’ve got some bits and pieces to sort out.”

“Naturally.” Aziraphale toyed with the coils of the cable. “Do you need me to fetch dinner?”

Another silence, a hum. “No. No, I don’t think so. I’ll get some stuff in.” Another pause, another silence, then a mischievous, “I have something for you.”

Aziraphale’s ears pricked up at once. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Lord, Crowley was _giggling_. That was seldom a good sign.

Once, that had meant walking through a water balloon fight in the grounds of the community centre. Another occasion had resulted in an exquisite meal smuggled in from Aziraphale’s favourite restaurant in Cambodia. With the angel, it could be one extreme or the other. There was no middle ground. 

“Will I… like it?”

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale could picture his grin. “I think so.” A bell chimed in the background. “Have to go! See you at seven!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protested. Sometimes, for an innocent little angel, he could be such a damned tease.

The rest of the day passed quickly enough, though the threat and promise of some angelic surprise on the horizon was enough to make it drag. Aziraphale liked to think he could be very patient, but sometimes, one couldn’t help one’s latent curiosity and at seven o’clock, on the nose, he arrived at the gates of the community centre.

They were closed for a change, which was unusual in and of itself. Crowley had a ridiculously lenient open-gate policy. The centre was there for the people he said, and that meant all the time. But apparently not tonight.

There was also an envelope tied to them with a letter A marked on the front.

Aziraphale plucked it down, curious.

Inside, there was a rectangle of card with a scribble on it: _Close the gate behind you and come into the centre_.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The gate opened under his touch and Aziraphale closed it behind him with nary a clank. He heard the touch of a miracle as the locks – which looked too old and disused to be functional – grated into the locked position.

A peculiar flutter spread through Aziraphale’s chest.

Whatever the angel had planned, he had no intention that they would be disturbed. And if that was the case… well, he really ought to look his best. A flick of his hand replaced his usual – and very comfortable – suit for something a little more elegant and tailored. He mussed his hair up, arranging one curl to fall coquettishly against his forehead, then walked around towards the door of the church.

Like the gates, it was also closed, but it opened at the lightest touch of his hand.

Warmth spilled out from the interior and Aziraphale quashed a smile as he walked through the vestibule, but the moment he stepped across the threshold of the body of the centre, he stopped dead, heart in his throat, emotion welling up unsolicited and stealing his breath away.

Another time, another place, and the angel had been standing there in a black suit, lit by candles, miserable and shocked.

Now, in the evening sunlight, he _glowed_, from the shining beads in the white, knee-length dress he was wearing to the smile illuminating his face, and the shadow of gleaming wings. His hair was tousled into wild curls and shimmering with crystal hairpins. Even his damned shoes, adorable little kitten heels, were studded with sparkles.

“Right on time,” he said happily, holding out a hand.

As if someone had hooked a string about his heart and tugged, Aziraphale walked forwards. There were chairs on either side of him. An event, he tried to remember, but the thought swallowing him whole was that he was walking down an aisle and Crowley was waiting for him in a white dress and smiling as brightly as the sun.

As soon as he was within reach, he extended a hand and caught Crowley’s, lifting the angel’s fingers to his lips.

“You look _beautiful_,” he said, unable to quantify all the superlatives flooding his brain. Too many, so many, utterly drowning him.

Crowley ducked his head with a self-conscious laugh. “I wanted to make an effort,” he said, tugging Aziraphale closer. “Special occasion and everything.”

“Is it?” Momentary panic flared. “Oh! Yes! Just over a year since we saved the world, isn’t it?”

Honey eyes shone with mirth. “I was thinking of something a little more personal.” He leaned closer and kissed Aziraphale softly. “Like that.”

He tasted of lipstick and happiness and it was rather intoxicating. “Ah, yes. The first time we kissed.”

“Not quite,” the angel said, smiling. “It was when you said you loved me.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks grew warm. “You’re so soft, darling.”

“Yeah, I am,” Crowley said, the wash of his happiness like the warmth of the summer sun. He fumbled with his skirt, then brought his other hand up between them. “I thought we should mark the occasion.”

When he opened his palms, Aziraphale forgot everything.

Two rings.

Crowley.

White dress.

Church.

Two rings.

He stared at them, then stared at the angel, then back at them.

“Rings,” he said weakly.

“Yes,” Crowley said. No doubt. No hesitation. No fear.

“For us?”

“Yes.” Creases around his eyes. Warm, knowing, happy smile. Fucking beautiful.

“You want us to…” Big thought. Too big thought for words. Good thought, but so big. So damned big.

Crowley took him by the hand. Held his eyes. “I do.”

There were definitely other words. Big ones. Probably good ones, if he could remember them. ‘Yes’ was emphatically one of them. Several times. A lot. And some tears. And rings, given and taken and Aziraphale’s hand shook as Crowley – the ring – his finger–

And then there was kissing and – yes, admittedly – quite a bit more crying.

Some time later, when the setting sun was painting the walls in gold, they were sitting side by side on the raised dais. Aziraphale had his arm around the – _his_ – angel’s waist. His words were finally inching back in, no longer quite so frightened off by the breath-taking euphoria.

“It’s lovely,” he murmured, tilting his hand in the light. Red and white gold in the shape of wings folding together. Crowley’s matched and, though very similar, they were very much not the same. For Aziraphale, red folded over white. For Crowley, white over red. “Your design?”

The angel nodded with a smile. “It’s us,” he said, as if Aziraphale had somehow missed it. He laid his hand over Aziraphale’s, both of their rings shimmering in the hazy golden light.

Aziraphale gazed at their hands, then tilted his palm and threaded his fingers through Crowley’s. “Did you ever imagine we would– we _could_–”

Crowley shook his head, then tightened his fingers around Aziraphale’s. “What God has joined,” he said suddenly, softly, fiercely, “let no one put asunder.” 

Aziraphale gave him an amused look. “Do you think She would have sanctioned this?”

“I told Her,” Crowley said with a small smile.

Aziraphale glanced upwards, then around. “You’d think she could’ve at least shelled out for some confetti or something, wouldn’t you?”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, shush.” He released Aziraphale’s hand and braced his palm on the demon’s knee to push himself to his feet.

Aziraphale gazed up at him in adoration, particularly admiring the way those rather lovely long legs vanished up under the swirl of the skirt as Crowley brushed it down. “You really do look ravishing in that dress.”

Crowley – though he still blushed – beamed happily and twirled on the spot. “I miss wearing dresses. Robes. Flowy things. I always liked them.”

“Wear them, then,” Aziraphale said at once, well aware he sounded far too eager. “I would _love_ to see you in them again.”

“Yeah?” Honey glowed.

“Long, short, big, small, modest, shameless,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Anything that makes you happy.”

The angel offered both hands down and pulled Aziraphale to his feet. “I love you.”

Aziraphale drew him closer, wrapping the angel up in his embrace. “The impromptu wedding did rather suggest it.”

The angel gave a small giggle the likes of which Aziraphale hadn’t heard since the angel had given up alcohol. Giddy and ecstatic and utterly without any shame. “We’re _married_,” he said, flinging his arms delightedly around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’re my _husband_.”

Oh look, Aziraphale thought helplessly. My words got lost again.

Probably a good thing, though, since Crowley kissed him, burying his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and twisting them in a way that made his toes curl and his stomach flutter and blood rush to all kinds of interesting places.

And he didn’t stop.

Angel’s hands were moving even as he stole Aziraphale’s breath and thought. Broke the circle of Aziraphale’s arms to push his coat off his shoulders. Set to work on the buttons of his shirt. Hot palm on bare skin made Aziraphale rear back, gasping, breathless.

“Darling, if you continue–”

Crowley cut him off, kissing him again.

Oh well, Aziraphale thought happily, might as well suffer and cooperate. A snap of his fingers loosened his cuffs and waistcoat and shirt joined coat on the floor. The angel pressed him onwards, fingers grazing over Aziraphale’s skin, exploring, caressing, squeezing, and he stepped forward, forward, forward, each step nudging Aziraphale back, back, back, until he was trapped between an angel and the wall, a blade of golden sunlight slashing down from high above them.

Only then, only when Aziraphale was breathless with want and need, only when he reached for the angel’s skirt, stroking a palm down Crowley’s thigh, did Crowley break the kiss. His eyes were liquid and dark and his cheeks flushed. His tongue darted along his lower lip.

Lord, if he went to his knees, in that dress, in the _church_…

A faint moan escaped the demon.

Crowley’s kiss-plumped lips twitched. “You all right?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale caught one of his hands, guiding it downwards, giving him an imploring look.

Crowley squeezed him through his trousers, making him rise on his toes, a breath sloughing from his lips, then the hand was gone.

“Not today, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “I have a present for you.”

Present?

The rings? Weren’t the rings…?

Crowley caught his hand, lifting it to his lips, kissing the middle of Aziraphale’s palm. “I need you to listen to me for a minute, love, all right?”

“Listen?” Aziraphale echoed, every warm brush of lips on his palm a stab of heat through his body. “Mm. Listen.”

A flush glowed on the angel’s face. “If you– if I’m–” He cleared his throat and began again. “If I do anything you don’t like or want, I want you to say ‘samsung’.”

Aziraphale blinked at him slowly. “If you do anything… I…” No. No, that didn’t make sense. That wasn’t– Crowley didn’t– that– it didn’t–

“You say ‘samsung’ and I’ll stop,” Crowley said, nodded.

Say a word and stop. If I do anything you don’t want or like. Say a word. Stop word.

Aziraphale’s breath dried up. “Angel,” he managed through a throat thickened with want. “Is… is that a… a safe word?” 

Crowley blushed to the tips of his ears. “Yes. I want you do have one.”

“_Why_?” Stupid question, idiot demon. Stupid question. Why would anyone want one? Probably more of that lovely, lovely angel magic or something and doesn’t want to go overboard so he’s–

“Because,” Crowley cut across his thoughts, honey eyes finding, holding his. “I want to… _know_ my husband.”

“Mbuh?”

All gone. All away. Again.

The angel’s face lit up and he was kissing again. Kissing and pressing and snapped his fingers and the rest of Aziraphale’s clothes vanished around him. He groaned as the textured ruffles of the angel’s skirt rubbed against bare skin, and caught Crowley’s hips, pulling him closer and–

And that wasn’t the usual bare soft smooth angel he knew.

Throat closed, eyes wide, mouth open.

Crowley reached down between them, pulling up his skirts with one hand and taking Aziraphale’s hand with the other. He was flaming, red as his hair, but he pushed Aziraphale’s hand to something that definitely wasn’t flesh and blood, but was firm and warm and held in straps of leather and had somehow been hidden under the skirts the whole time.

Aziraphale embarrassed himself, both in sound and action.

“You like it, then?” Crowley was pink. Pink and pleased and Aziraphale could only lean in and kiss his mouth again and again. The angel licked at his lips, nipped at them, then, without warning, dipped down, caught the back of Aziraphale’s thighs with his hands and _yanked _them up.

Angels… angels could be bloody strong…

Crowley pinned him in place – all froth and white and virginal – up against the wall. The sheer sin of it all, with an _angel_ in a former _church_ of all places, teased so closed to wickedness that Aziraphale thought he might discorporate from the pleasure of it. Hands cradling thighs. No effort at all. Pinned him, held him, and Aziraphale could only grasp at his shoulders, feel the press of him, and lower down, the press of _it_…

“You know what to say if you want me to stop?” Crowley said softly, holding him there, holding him so still and steady, his own Atlas.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Say it for me, so I know.”

“S-samsung.” He twitched his hips, shifting their alignment, and groaned helplessly as Crowley’s accessory rubbed against him.

Crowley bestowed a heavenly smile on him. “Can you… prepare?” he asked. “I’m–” Hands squeezed Aziraphale’s thighs. “Bit busy.”

No effort at all, that. Twist of the fingers, little indulgent miracle. Slick and ready and oh… oh _Christ_, it was Crowley and Crowley was–

“You don’t have to,” he babbled out. “You don’t have to fuck…”

Crowley pressed him up a little higher, rough stone scraping against his bare back. “I don’t have to do that, no,” he agreed in a whisper against Aziraphale’s lips. “But I _want_ to make love to my husband.” And then he _pushed_ his hips up and Aziraphale didn’t know what made him keen more, the words or the slow, steady press into his trapped, wanting, greedy, shivering body.

No words.

All gone.

Best he could do was wrap his legs around Crowley. Arms too. Holding him close and warm.

Breath on his skin, soft, warm kisses, everything still and warm and close and perfect.

And then…

And then he started to move. Slow at first. Cautious. Aziraphale tightened his thighs, dug in his fingers, growled in want and made things so much worse. Crowley – always good with positive feedback – understood. Crowley started to move with purpose. Strong, stronger, fast, urgent little bastard, oh Christ. Skirts rucked up between them. Wall grazing across his back. Fingers dug into his thighs and bruising. Urgent, heated breaths on his lips and honey eyes watching, drinking him in, swallowing him whole.

The world shrank to honey eyes and every point of contact, skin on skin, fingers in hair, lips a hair’s breadth apart. Aziraphale forgot how to do anything but respond, feel, drink him in, the scent of him, the taste, salt on his lips, flush of exertion in his face, the pleasure and happiness, the delight in the angel’s eyes when he made Aziraphale cry out and shudder and come hard – and almost at once – soft again.

Once, twice, again and again, over and over, until he was spent and his hands were slipping and he was trembling and helpless and making small, soft, kittenish sounds. Crowley laughed – triumph, joy, rapture – and slowed and slowed and stopped.

With no visible effort, he descended to his knees, still joined so intimately with Aziraphale, holding him steady and close.

Aziraphale sagged back against the wall, breathless, sated, reeling. “Mm.”

Crowley lifted a hand to brush a sweat-damp curl back from his brow. “All right?”

Aziraphale tilted his head to kiss the angel’s palm. “Mm-hm.” He shifted his back, wincing pleasantly as Crowley’s toy shifted inside him. “Spiffing.”

Crowley burst out into beautiful peals of laughter. “Spiffing…” he echoed, giggling. He leaned closer and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Shall we get you next door? I don’t think you’d like sleeping in the scud on the floor in here.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded, eyes closed.

Warm hands were on him again and he was lifted – like a babe in arms – as if he weighed no more than a feather. Not empty, though. Oh, naughty, naughty angel, leaving a toy in place. He nuzzled Crowley’s throat, nestling closer, arms under his ribs and thighs.

The evening air was cool on his skin and he shivered, opening his bleary eyes to look up as they neared the chapter house.

Crowley was gazing down at him, all fond and soft and radiant. “I love you.”

“You too,” Aziraphale murmured happily, then giggled. “Carrying me over the threshold.”

“Just a bit,” Crowley said, laughing. “Just rest, love. I’ll take care of you.”

Took a while for all words and thoughts to come creeping back in. Not when the angel filled a bowl with warm water and cleaned him up and tenderly washed the scrapes down his back and kissed the bruises on his thighs and finally, finally slipped the toy free. Not when they cuddled on the couch, angel behind him, blanket around them both, and they sipped from the same mug of hot cocoa.

Only when they were getting into bed – after Crowley gave him and his still-wobbly legs a piggy-back up the stairs – did they settle back down, wrapped up in the glow of one tremendous and wonderful and amazing thought.

“Darling,” he said, pausing in the process of buttoning his pyjamas. “We’re married.”

Crowley, already tucked up in bed, smiled up at him. “You noticed that?”

“But it’s _us_,” Aziraphale said, sitting down – admittedly gingerly – on the edge of the bed. “I mean _we_ are _married_.”

Crowley pulled the cover back invitingly. “Yes, we are,” he said happily. “Is my husband coming to bed?”

Aziraphale’s heart felt overly full and Lord, if this was what joy was, then he could see the appeal. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”


	71. 2020 - August - Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Aziraphale's surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to. I'm soft.

Birds were singing on the roof and there were fingers brushing through Crowley’s hair as he woke up. House was already bright, morning light breaking through all the dozen windows. He yawned, rubbing his cheek against the pillow and smiled when the arm around his waist tightened.

“Morning, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured. The demon was curved around behind him, knees tucked up behind Crowley’s, fitted so close together there was barely any gap between them. “Sleep well?”

Crowley nodded, running his hand along Aziraphale’s arm. His hand covered Aziraphale’s and the chink of metal on metal made his smile widen even more. “Mm.” He moved his hand, caressing Aziraphale’s fingers and the ring now that adorned one of them.

“You,” Aziraphale murmured, voice warm with happiness and ticklish against his ear, “are the softest bastard I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“Ha!” Crowley wriggled back against him. “And you’re the daft bastard who married me.”

Aziraphale smothered his own giggle in Crowley’s throat. “Can’t believe you did that,” he admitted.

“_We_,” Crowley pointed out, beaming. “Two sentimental bastards job.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and kissed his neck. “Semantics.” He spread his fingers under Crowley’s and the angel happily threaded his fingers between them. “I’m only sorry you didn’t have a proper celebration.”

The angel tilted his head with an impish look. “I thought we celebrated pretty well.”

To his delight, the demon still pinked. “You know what I mean! Guests! Presents! A cake!”

“Ahhhhh,” Crowley said sagely. “That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? You wanted cake.”

Aziraphale feigned indignation. “Well, I wouldn’t say _no_ to one, per se.” He dropped a kiss on the corner of Crowley’s lips. “I only think you should have a chance to celebrate sometimes. You do so much for other peoples’ celebrations. I think they would be delighted to celebrate with you too.”

Crowley wriggled around in his arms. “I don’t want to press anyone into anything.”

Aziraphale gave him an incredulous look. “Darling, it’s _you_. They _adore_ you. I imagine you’d have a queue around the block of people coming to wish you well.”

Crowley blinked at him, then hid his face in the demon’s chest. “Shush.”

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale said. “I’m going to go out this afternoon and issue invitations to celebrate your– _our_ nuptials. Everyone who uses the centre will be informed, particularly since I must now whisk you off on an absurdly romantic honeymoon.”

“You don’t _have_–”

“Oh, I’m well-aware of that,” Aziraphale said, as if he had just won the jackpot. He cupped Crowley’s cheek, urging Crowley to look up at him, “but you see, I’d rather like to lavish my adoration on my husband.”

For a split-second, it felt like time stopped, hanging on the word.

Aziraphale must have misread his expression. “Do you prefer wife? Spouse?”

“_Anything_,” Crowley assured him, his throat all tight and stupid. “You just… you’d never called me that before.”

“Oh!” The demon rolled him onto his back, smothering him with kisses. “My beloved wife, my darling husband, my magnificent spouse, my exquisite life-partner, my cherished ball-and-chain, my wondrous helpmeet!”

The time-stop thing, it turned out, was a one-time thing. It was very hard to have another moment like that, when you were laughing so hard and squirming because your perfect idiot of a new husband was nouning all over your face.

“I get it! I get it!” He shoved his hand between their faces, which didn’t really stop Aziraphale, who instead started kissing his palm and each finger in turn. “You’re in a mood this morning, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale planted a loud and deliberate kiss on the end of his thumb. “I’ve never been married before. I rather like it.”

Crowley couldn’t help the warm glow that bubbled up inside him. “Yeah?”

“Well, as long as it’s you,” Aziraphale said. “I imagine anyone else would be rather tiresome.” He leaned closer, conspiratorially, and added, “And I doubt I could find anyone who would look as good in a dress and ravish me against a wall with such ease.”

Crowley knew he was blushing, but he could remember the rapture on Aziraphale’s face and oh, it had been fantastic, watching him come apart over and over. Aziraphale was always so good at feigning emotions, but not there, not then, not when he was weak with pleasure and half-sobbing Crowley’s name.

“You definitely enjoyed yourself,” he said, running his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. There was something so satisfying about seeing that soft cheek go as red as his own.

“I never expected–” Aziraphale hesitated, taking a quivering breath, then tried again, “I mean, I know you don’t really– it’s not necessarily something you want–”

Crowley stifled him with a warm kiss. “I liked it,” he assured him gently, pressing his brow to Aziraphale’s. “You have no idea how _good_ it feels to see you so overwhelmed with happiness.”

“Oh!”

Crowley could see his mind working, etched all over his face. “Go on,” he said, trying not to laugh. “Say what you’re thinking.”

The demon bit his lip, then suggested, “Maybe we should try again some time? I mean, I’m sure I _could_ be happier.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “I knew it, you dirty old slapper!”

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “I’m a _newlywed_! We’re allowed to be enthusiastic about it!”

Crowley grinned at him. “And what was your excuse before?”

The demon pouted at him. “Well… I suppose I _was_ a dirty old slapper, but now…” The pout was trying very hard not to become a smirk. “Now, I’m a respectable married man who wants to make my wife-husband-spouse-angel happy.” 

Crowley glanced over at the bedside table. “My mug’s empty,” he said, then grinned as, almost instantly, steam curled up from it and the scent of fresh coffee filled the bedroom. “Good start.”

Aziraphale dropped a kiss on the end of his nose, then lifted his arm to let Crowley sit up and reach for the cup. The demon wiggled his way across to his own side of the bed – inevitably, they both always ended up on Crowley’s side – reaching up for his own mug.

Some time during the night, Aziraphale must’ve abandoned his pyjama top and Crowley reached out and lightly ran his fingertips down the reddened rash spread across Aziraphale’s back, where skin had ground against stone. Mostly on the shoulders, but there were some darker blooms just above the waistband of his bottoms as well.

“What a mess I made of you,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale gave a pleasant shiver. “Mm. You may have to apply ointment. Lather me up.”

Reproachfully, Crowley flicked at the reddest bit of skin he could see, though he couldn’t help grinning at the hungry little sound the demon made. “You’re terrible,” he said, pulling up one of Aziraphale’s pillows against the headboard for the demon to sit against.

“You’ve known that for millennia, darling,” Aziraphale said, happily settling back beside him, his angel-wing cup cradled in his left hand. With his right, he caught Crowley’s left and lifted it to his lips, kissing first the back of his palm, then the ring.

Crowley watched him, feeling stupidly light and warm and happy. It wasn’t all him either. He could feel the throb of adoration from Aziraphale, so powerful and potent, yet steady as a heartbeat.

“What is it?” Aziraphale said, when he noticed he was being watched.

Crowley could only give a happy little shrug and tip sideways to lean against him.

That pulse of adoration grew stronger.

“I love you too, my most beloved,” Aziraphale murmured and kissed his brow. He took a sip of his tea, then added, “But I am still going to throw you a party.”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley laughed. “Let’s just enjoy this morning.”

Aziraphale beamed and squeezed his fingers. “As my best half wishes.”

Crowley’s lips twitched helplessly. “You’re going to use a different one every time, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale gave him the dopiest and most beautiful of smiles. “Until the sky burns and the seas run dry, yes.” He sighed happily, then added, “My cinnamon roll.”

Crowley snorted into his cup, coffee spraying everywhere. “You bugger!” he sputtered, laughing.

Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes. “Sorry, my muffin.”

Crowley kicked his ankle, still shaking with mirth. “Idiot,” he said happily.

“Your idiot,” Aziraphale reminded him, radiantly happy.

Crowley could only squeeze his fingers in return, nestling against his arm, happier than he could ever remember being in his life.


	72. 2020 - August - Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling a bit down, so I did what I always do in that mood. Wrote fluffy Inverse :D

“This is ridiculous.” Crowley was wobbling at the top of a ladder. “I’m ridiculous.”

Aziraphale steadied it for him, looking up fondly. “Well, you are, but I don’t see why we’re having this particular lamentation today of all days.”

Those lovely honey eyes glowered down at him. “I’m an _angel_. I don’t get this kind of stuff.”

“You do today.” Aziraphale patted his calf. “Now get down, dear, and let me finish this for you properly.”

Grumbling, Crowley hopped down from the ladder. “S’not normal.”

Aziraphale looped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. “Of course it’s not, darling,” he said and kissed him warmly on the cheek. “It’s a once in a lifetime, miracle of miracles, never before seen and never shall be seen again event.”

Crowley nudged the tips of their noses together. “Miracle of miracles, eh? Is that what we’re calling it?”

Aziraphale gave him a squeeze. “Well, I certainly saw something akin to God when we did it.”

The angel squeaked, face flushing puce. “’Ziraphale!” He clamped his hands over his face. “Christ! You can’t say stuff like that about… stuff like _that_.”

Chuckling, Aziraphale leaned closer to whisper in his ear, “Darling, you _fucked_ me in a church. I don’t know what you expected.”

Crowley swatted at him. “No! Not that! I…” He coughed. “Well… I _knew_ you. Don’t make it sound crass.”

“Oh, you certainly… knew me very well,” Aziraphale concurred. “Very vigorous knowing. Deep and… penetrative knowing.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “In the very Biblical se–”

Crowley clamped a hand over his mouth. “You,” he said, lips twitching, “are a filthy pervert.”

Aziraphale kissed his palm fondly, nuzzling his way free. “_Your_ filthy pervert, my macaron.”

“And once more, I’m a fragile, squishy baked good.”

“With a soft, tasty filling,” Aziraphale purred happily. “I would happily devour you inside and out.”

“I’m not here for munching.” Crowley rolled his eyes, lines of mirth creasing around them. “Thought you said something about… finishing me off.”

“Darling!” Aziraphale gasped, clutching his chest. “Did you say something… suggestive?”

The angel’s lips twitched, his eyebrows arching. “Do I look satisfied?”

It was remarkable, Aziraphale thought happily, how many times he could fall in love with one very singular angel. He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers, pulling all the banners and streamers into place at once. The food was held, preserved on all the table and everything looked quite splendid.

“Well, my gingersnap? Satisfied?”

Crowley gazed at around, positively glowing. “It’s still ridiculous,” he said, unable to hide the smile that spread all over his lovely face.

“I suppose you won’t want the ridiculous outfit I’ve picked out for you then,” Aziraphale said with a heavy sigh.

Funny how much Crowley could look like a predator. “Clothes? You got me _clothes_?”

The angel’s love of textiles was infamous. For Satan’s sake, he had patchwork quilts and t-shirts by the dozen, rainbow socks and woolly hats and scarfs enough to fill the entire chapter house. The upper room of the church was a storage area for the overflow.

“I got you a rather special ensemble,” Aziraphale said, eyes widened with oblivious innocence. “Do you want it?”

The angel smacked him on the arm. “Yes! Of course! Gimme!”

“Back to the house, then!” Aziraphale snatched up his hand, trotting to the door that led out to the chapter house. Crowley was practically bounding ahead of him, his rapture tangible and enough to make Aziraphale’s legs wobble under him.

“What is it?” Crowley spun to face him as soon as they crossed the threshold. “Is it shiny?”

“Oh, yes, very much so.” Aziraphale took the angel by the arms and gently nudged him sideways to he could get to his shelves. He didn’t have much on them aside from books, but there was one plain flat box. It hardly looked like anything and Crowley had been respectful enough to not touch it for the week it had been sitting there. “Here you go, marshmallow.”

Crowley squeaked in delight, grabbing the box and throwing himself down on the couch, ripping off the stickers securing it closed. “I thought this was a new suit or something for you,” he said, easing his fingers under the edge of the lid. “Something fancy.”

“Consider it my wedding present,” Aziraphale said happily, folding his hands over his belly. “Your something new.”

Angels had haloes, but they seldom appeared in the human plane. Now, though, Crowley’s was shining over him and, not for the first time, Aziraphale was struck by the temptation to fall to his knees in awe at the splendour of him in all his angelic glory.

“You spoil me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I give you exactly what you deserve.” He motioned with a finger. “Go on. Open it.”

Crowley lifted the lid and immediately burst out laughing. “You absolute tit!” He lifted up the t-shirt and held it to the light, making the swirly text shimmer. It had been made especially, sequins and glitter and every possibly sparkling thing picking out the words: we got married and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. And Crowley was shining even brighter than it. “I love it!”

Sometimes, one simply had to give in to the temptations laid before them and Aziraphale sank to his knees and _basked_.


	73. 2020 - August - Reception

Anthony Crowley and Ezra Fell are delighted to announce their marriage. A celebratory reception will be held in the St. Dunstan Community Centre on Saturday the 5th of September.

_______________________________________________

The community centre was so busy. Even the garden was busy. There were tables everywhere and sweets and cakes and a giant pile of dumplings. Big gold and white balloons were all over the place and streamers and sparkly things. Presents and flowers and everything were all stacked up on the stage at the end of the big hall.

Uncle Tony looked like he didn’t believe it was all happening. He was dressed the same as usual, in his jeans and a t-shirt, but his floppy hair was pinned back with a clip that sparkled and his t-shirt – in big white letters – said “We got married and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”.

“You didn’t tell us you were getting married,” Sam accused cheerfully, when she finally managed to squeeze her way to his side.

“I didn’t know if I was,” Uncle Tony admitted with a stupid happy smile. “I wasn’t sure if he’d say yes.”

Sam grabbed his hand to look at the ring. “Oh! Pretty!” She looked up at him. “Can I meet him? Your husband?”

Uncle Tony lit up like someone had flicked a switch and turned. “Ezra!”

A man talking to a group further down the hall turned, then beamed, trotting up the hall. Sam recognised him. He’d been seen around the centre a lot in the last year. Some of the others in the youth group said they’d seen him coming out of the chapter house and everything.

“Yes, my cherub?” he said as he swept up behind Uncle Tony and wrapped an arm around his waist.

Uncle Tony went all pink and glowy. “Sam wanted to meet my husband.”

His husband went pink and glowy too. “Well, that would be me, my dear,” he said, giving her a wink. His eyes were brilliant blue. “I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“Oh shush,” Uncle Tony laughed, hiding his face in his hand.

“But it’s true,” his husband said and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek. “No one else here managed to win the heart of a charming, adorable, funny, silly–”

“GNF!” Uncle Crowley went from pink to bright red and took his hands off his own face to cover his husband’s. “Shush!”

Sam giggled. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr…” she paused, frowning. “Are you Mr. Crowley too? Or are you Mr. Fell, Uncle Tony?”

Uncle Tony’s husband peered out between Uncle Tony’s fingers. “Hm.”

“Just call him Uncle Ezra,” Uncle Tony said.

“Darling!” Uncle Ezra protested.

Uncle Tony dropped his hands. “I warned you to shush,” he said happily. He took Uncle Ezra’s hand and Uncle Ezra’s face went all soft and happy. “We’ll let you know when we decide on surnames.”

Sam nodded. “Do you want your card?” she asked, holding it out.

Uncle Ezra took it. “I’ll add it to our pile,” he said, then kissed Uncle Tony on the cheek. “You behave yourself, darling.”

Uncle Tony watched him walk away and he looked like every person in ever soppy film ever.

“You look happy,” Sam said.

Uncle Tony nodded. “I am.”

Sam beamed at him. “Good!”

___________________

“I don’t see why we’re here,” Tad muttered. “If the department lets slip I’ve been going to a _gay_ wedding reception–”

Harriet shot a warning look at him. “Warlock loves this place,” she said. “The least we can do is support his activities and he wanted to come.”

Her husband grunted. She knew he just wanted to complain, even though it meant he got to skip out on an equally dull dinner with some backwoods hick lawyer who wanted to talk about tree-hugging or something.

“There’s Mr. Crowley!” Warlock spun around. “I’m gonna go and give him his present!”

“He’s the manager?” Tad said doubtfully.

Harriet nodded.

Mr. Crowley didn’t look like management material, it was true. He was skinny and always dressed like a grad student who hadn’t slept well, but he looked happy which was cute. He smiled when he saw Warlock and even hugged him, which was cute too. Warlock wasn’t a hug kind of kid, but he loved the centre and he came every vacation. He didn’t even have to pay for it, which counted as a win.

“You made it! Marvellous!” The big blond man who had greeted her on her first visit swept in towards them. _He_ looked like management material, in a pricy suit and bowtie. He held out his hand to shake hers. “Ezra,” he reminded her.

“I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Tad,” Harriet said, nodding towards him. “We wanted to come and congratulate you on your wedding.”

Tad nodded stiffly, holding out a hand. “Congratulations.”

Ezra smiled warmly at Harriet, but when he looked at Tad, he seemed amused. “Ah, Thaddeus, isn’t it?” He took Tad’s hand, squeezed and Tad winced as he was pulled a step closer. “I’ve heard such… interesting things about you, my dear. I believe my cousin worked for you for a time. Miss Ashtoreth? You made… quite an impression on her.”

Tad made a weird choked sound, tugging his hand back. “Right. Yeah. She was– Warlock– nanny.”

Ezra laughed. “Oh I heard she did a lot more than merely tend the child, didn’t she?” He turned his smile on the confused Harriet. “She was awfully fond of you, my dear. A shame she was called elsewhere.” He glanced over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I should join my husband.”

Harriet turned slowly to Tad. “What was that about?”

Tad’s face went purple. “No idea.”

_______________________________

Hammed looked up at the community centre.

He hadn’t visited in almost twenty years, but when an envelope had dropped through his letterbox with the announcement of a wedding, curiosity had got the better of him. It looked just the same, with the garden blooming and the same Bentley parked at the far end of the courtyard.

It was twenty years since he’d been.

Nineteen years since he’d forcibly been moved away up to Leeds.

Sixteen since he’d spoken to his family.

And every year, without fail, he got a birthday card from Mr. C. He didn’t know how the man kept up with his constantly changing addresses. Or that one time when he was staying in a hostel when he’d lost his job and his flat fell through and everything went to shit. It was like a little miracle, a little bit of brightness in a hard and messy life that gradually got better and better.

If Mr. C. was celebrating, Hammed wanted to be there. Mr. C. was always there for everybody else, so it was about time they got a chance to be there for him as well.

He stepped around a middle-aged American couple who were arguing outside the main doors and walked in and it was like twenty years dropped away. The place was full of light and laughter and it even smelled just the same as always. Maybe less cheap paint and more food, but still the same.

And in the middle of it all, surrounded by people, talking and laughing and smiling, was Mr. C.

Hammed’s heart gave a weird little flutter.

Mr. C. looked exactly the same. Not just a little bit. Exactly the same. Still as warm and welcoming as the days when Hammed had fallen head over heels for him. And he noticed Hammed there and raised a hand in greeting and so what if he looked the same? Some people had good genes. It happened.

“You came!” Mr. C. said, when he finally managed to escape the groups of people talking to him. “It’s great to see you!”

Hammed nodded and his eyes stung when Mr. C. stepped right in close and hugged him and held him exactly as warmly as he needed. He clung to him for too long, but Mr. C. didn’t complain, just rubbing his back.

“How’re you doing? It’s been a while since I heard…”

Hammed cleared his throat and pulled back, hastily rubbing at his eyes. “Good,” he said with a smile and held up his hand. He had a ring as well and Mr. C’s face shone. “He would’ve come, but Ismail – our little one – has a stomach bug.”

Mr. C nodded, smiling warmly. “I’m glad things worked out for you.”

“You too,” Hammed said. “Married, eh?”

Mr. C. laughed. “I made an honest man out of him,” he said. He waved a hand and a man on the other side of the hall wove his way towards them. “Took us a while to get here, but we got there in the end.”

The big blond man arrived, bearing a plate of dumplings. “Bad-mouthing me again, are you, my plum?”

“Always,” Mr. C. said, picking up a dumpling. “D’you remember Hammed?”

Hammed stared at the man, then blushed puce. An incident from twenty years ago abruptly came to mind. It involved a bit too much to drink, fumbling hands, and the first time he let himself do _anything_ with the weird feelings he’d been having.

“Oh!” Mr. C’s husband grinned. “Isn’t that the little lad I caught in the bushes beside the greenhouse with–”

Mr. C. elbowed him in the ribs. “Yes, and shut up.”

His husband mimed locking his lips, but winked at Hammed.

“He’s a filthy pig,” Mr. C. said happily.

His husband leaned closer and murmured conspiratorially to Hammed, “And I’ve caught this one”– he nodded back towards Mr. C– “in the bushes behind the greenhouse myself.”

“Oi!” Mr. C. burst out laughing and smacked him fondly on the back of the head. “Behave.”

Hammed couldn’t help laughing at the look of mock-innocence that Mr. C’s husband turned on Mr. C.

“Never done it before,” he said, batting his lashes, “have no intention of starting now.” He proffered the plate to Hammed. “Dumpling?”

“Excuse you!” Mr. C. snatched the plate. “Those are mine!”

His husband leaned in and kissed him warmly. “Of course they are, my dove.” He gave Hammed a sunny smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get your own. My beguiling partner is a greedy bastard who eats everything.”

“Hey!” Mr. C. laughed so hard he almost choked on the dumpling in his mouth.

Hammed grinned. Mr. C. happy was contagious. “I’ll manage,” he said. “Congratulations again.”

_______________________

It should’ve been weird.

It wasn’t, but it should’ve been.

Angie had been using the centre ever since she was a little scrap of a thing back in the 80s. Her kids had been coming to it. Even her grandkids were old enough to come now. Every one of them got an invite for Anthony Crowley’s reception. She remembered Uncle Tony. Her daughter remembered Mr. C. And little Candice was back talking about Uncle Tony too.

They all remembered the same skinny red-head who made everything seem a bit happier and bit more fun and taught them all about everything. Angie could still remember when he brought a huge snake in and wandered about, wearing it like a scarf.

It didn’t make sense.

It should’ve been weird.

But they all went along to the reception anyway, because it was the centre and Mr. Crowley and he’d done so much for them. At least they could show up and give him a card. Okay, yes, they all kind of wanted to see if they were talking about the same person and when they saw him…

Well, of course they were all talking about the same person, and it was like stepping back in time and he hugged all of them, smiling and laughing and calling them by name. He offered them biscuits – which were exactly as good as Angie remembered – and introduced them to his new husband.

The man wasn’t what Angie expected, but then she didn’t know what she’d expected for Uncle Tony, who was always casual and relaxed and never ever wore a suit. And Uncle Tony _was_ still Uncle Tony, only his smile was much bigger and the whole place felt like it was a the best kind of day in the summer holidays. It was packed, but it didn’t feel crowded. It felt… good.

“He’s just the same,” Linsey, her daughter, said when Uncle Tony went to meet some more new arrivals. “Hasn’t changed a bit.”

Angie nodded. “Lucky for some, eh?”

Linsey shifted Candice from one side to the other. “People used to say he was magic,” she said. “Like he was always here and would always be here.”

Angie looked around the hall that was buzzing with people and every one of them there for Uncle Tony. “I hope so,” she said. “He deserves a happily ever after.”

“Aw, mum,” Linsey laughed. “You’re so soft.”

Sometimes, Angie thought, yeah.

_______________________________

The old man was standing beside the gate.

Papia watched him for a little while as she nibbled on her biscuit. She was sitting on the bench in the garden, because it was too busy inside and outside was nice and sunny.

He was a funny man, all raggedy clothes and a messy thing on his head that was meant to be hair. And he was holding a plant with a bow on it. It was probably a present for Mr. Crowley and his new husband. Maybe he didn’t like lots of people too.

Papia hopped down off the bench and crunched over to him.

“Hello.”

The man looked down at her. His eyes were all black. “What do you want?”

Papia peered at the plant. “Is that for Mr. Crowley?”

The man’s face went all screwed up like he was cross but he nodded.

“Do you not want to come in because of all the people?” she asked. “Cos there’s a lot of people and sometimes a lot of people is too much and I can go and get him for you, if you want? He likes flowers so I think he’d like to see it.”

The man looked confused. “You would… fetch him?”

Papia nodded. “I can go and find him. You don’t have to come in if…” She frowned trying to remember the lessons they had in school. “If you have so-see-al ang-zi-ity.” She gave him her biggest smile. “I’ll get him for you.”

Before he could say anything, she ran, crunching all the way, back to the door.

It took her a few minutes, but she was small enough to squeeze through all the people and finally found Mr. Crowley and his husband. Mr. Crowley was holding Mrs. Khan’s new granddaughter, but when he looked down and saw Papia, he handed the baby back.

“What is it?” he asked, crouching down to Papia’s height. He always knew she didn’t like lots of people.

“There’s a man outside,” she confided. “I think he’s scared to come in. Will you come and see him?”

Mr. Crowley took her hand at once. “Show me where he is.”

It was like a path magically cleared for them all the way up the hall and Papia led him out to the front gate, where the funny old man was waiting. He looked nervous and Papia let go of Mr. Crowley’s hand so he could go and see what the man wanted.

They spoke to each other, too quietly for Papia to hear them, then the old man pushed the plant pot into Mr. Crowley’s hands and hurried away.

“Is he all right?” Papia asked, worried, as Mr. Crowley came back towards the door. He was smiling.

“He’s fine,” he said. “He’s just… not very good at being around people yet.” He crouched down to show her the plant. “He brought me a special tea plant, because I told him about a kind of tea I like, but sometimes, it’s very difficult to get it here.”

Papia stared at it. “That’s a very special present, isn’t it?”

Mr. Crowley nodded. “I think I’ll put it safely inside the house for now.” He offered a hand. “Would you like to come with me? You can help me pick where to put it.”

Papia’s heart jumped up and down. Only special people got to see inside Mr. Crowley’s house. She reached up and took his hand in hers. “Yes, please.”

_____________________________

The last guest had finally departed, the hall was finally deserted and Crowley was sitting cross-legged on the stage, opening another parcel.

“You’re going to run out of space for gardening tools at this rate,” Aziraphale observed, sitting down beside him and offering him a plate with a thin slice of cake on it.

“There’s plenty of space,” Crowley retorted, smiling. He took the plate, setting aside the presents to pick at the fondant. “Thank you. For all of this, I mean. I didn’t– I had no idea–” He waved his hand helplessly, clearly unable to find the words he needed.

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “That you were so well-loved?” He lifted his hand to cradle Crowley’s cheek. “My darling, you are a marvel and every person who has ever walked through these doors sees it in you, just as I always have.”

Crowley ducked his head. “Oh, shush.”

“You know it’s true,” Aziraphale said firmly, tilting his face back up and leaning closer to kiss him. “I wouldn’t settle for anything but the best you know.”

“You like making me blush,” Crowley accused, shoving a bit of cake into Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Well, obviously, darling,” he retorted, lipping the angel’s fingers. “You do it so well.”

“Flah!” The angel pushed his palm against Aziraphale’s face. “Soft.” He returned his attention to his cake, but he was still smiling. It was remarkable how he could take a vast and chilly building and suffuse it with such overwhelming warmth.

Aziraphale sat, happy to bask, happy to watch him picking at their wedding cake, happy to remember that only twenty-four hours earlier, they had stood at precisely this spot and said words no angel or demon had ever said to each other before.

“You’re staring again,” Crowley said without even looking over.

“How can you tell?”

Honey eyes flicked his way. “Because it’s the only time you ever shut up.”

Aziraphale snorted in amusement. “I might have been eating,” he pointed out.

“True, but you’re not, ergo, staring.” The angel’s lips twitched, trying very hard to compress his smile. He finished all but the last sliver of his cake, which he picked up. “Here. Have an excuse.”

Aziraphale caught his wrist and nibbled the cake from his fingertips, then kissed each finger, his palm and his inner wrist. “Lord, I love you, my darling.”

“I know,” Crowley murmured. He shuffled a little closer, leaning into him. “I’m glad we did it. The wedding. The marriage. All of this.” He sighed happily. “I’ve watched from the edges for so long. They always seemed so… it was always so happy. I wanted to know why, to know what it was like.”

“And was it what you expected?” Aziraphale asked, stroking his free hand the length of the angel’s back.

Crowley turned his smile towards the demon and illuminated his world. “Oh, better. Much better.” He knocked Aziraphale’s ribs with his elbow. “Good meal, nice party, pretty dress. The only thing we missed out on was the dancing.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale released him at once, scrambling back to his feet. “Let’s amend that then. We can’t have an incomplete reception, can we?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You think we can dance?”

“I know I can,” Aziraphale said with a haughty sniff. He snapped his fingers, replacing his informal day suit with the finer one of the night before, then held out his hand. “Shall we have the first dance, my darling?”

Crowley shone in the light of the setting sun, eyes aglow, as he got up. Matched gestures with both hands replaced his jeans and t-shirt with the dress once more. His hair glittered, his shoes too, and he laid his hand in Aziraphale’s.

“I’m going to break your toes,” he warned.

“Many have tried, my love,” Aziraphale laughed, “and many have failed.” Another snap of his fingers and his gramophone from his shop appeared, the needle dropping onto the record, the first strains of Waltz of the Flowers humming out. “Now, have you ever waltzed before?”

Crowley gave him a Look. “You know angels can’t dance.”

“I also know they can’t get married to demons and yet…” Aziraphale drew him close. “Here. Put this hand on my shoulder and I put mine at your waist like this…” And the wave of happiness damn near knocked him clean off his feet. “Now…” He had to take a breath, then another to steady himself. “Now, it’s a simple one-two-three rhythm, you see…”

They got to three turns before Crowley somehow stepped on both his feet at once.

“I told you!” He laughed. “I can’t dance!”

“Hm.” Aziraphale considered him, then put both hands to Crowley’s waist. “Wings out, then.”

“What– but we’re–”

“We’re in a hall that is certainly large enough,” Aziraphale replied, smiling as he unfurled his own wings. “Trust me, my love, and spare my toes, and you’ll have your first dance.”

Honey eyes drank him in then, black wings of starlight unfurled, and together, they swept up into the air. Paper, confetti and balloons scattered and swirled around them, and Aziraphale pulled Crowley close, whirling him as lightly as though they were still on the floor.

Together, they dipped and spun, and perhaps it did take a dozen little miracles to make it so, to grant them lift, to keep them steady, but Aziraphale would have performed them and a thousand more for the rapturous look on Crowley’s face as they danced in the air.

As the piece of music came to its end, strokes of their wings brought them back to the floor, but Aziraphale had no intention of letting go and neither, it seemed, did Crowley.

Dance, an angel could not, but sway, he certainly could. As the strains of the Pas de Deux rang around them, an angel and a demon swayed to the music together, lost entirely in one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Whiteley Foster's illustration of their dance](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/post/618186144514998272/whiteleyfoster-s-gorgeous-illustration-of-this).


	74. 2020 - September - Remorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss writing Crowley like this :D

Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling a little concerned.

He and Crowley had planned to dine out and though Crowley still ate little, he wasn’t one to cancel their occasional dates, squeezed in between the ever growing mountain of activities ongoing at his centre. Especially not with a curt “come home as soon as you can” before hanging up the phone.

Nothing to worry about, he’d also said, but then Crowley’s self-preservation instinct could swing to either end of the spectrum depending on the day.

Needless to say, Aziraphale closed up the shop at once, locking the door, and flagging down the first taxi he saw, heading east in the direction of the centre.

To his surprise, Crowley was sitting on the bench in the garden when he arrived, one arm draped along the back, the other hand cradling a mug of coffee. No threats. No enemies that Aziraphale could see. Nothing worth cancelling a date for.

“If you didn’t want to go to the Ritz, you _could_ have said,” he grumbled, crunching towards him.

Crowley didn’t even look his way. “I got you something,” he murmured.

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh?” When Crowley smiled and nodded ahead of him, Aziraphale glanced around, following his line of sight. To the Bentley. And more specifically to the human sitting still as a waxwork in the driver’s seat.

“I had to concentrate to keep him there,” Crowley said conversationally. “He tried to steal her.”

Aziraphale caught his breath. Now that he was closer, he could feel the twang of Crowley’s power around the car, freezing their thief in a moment in time. “You’re all right, though? I would hate for you to overexert yourself.”

Crowley grinned. “Compared to Lucifer and the armies of Hell, this is a walk in the park.” He unfolded his arm from the back of the bench and shooed Aziraphale towards the car. “I thought you might want to put the fear of… well… you know how to do your job.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help giving a delighted wiggle. “You get me the _nicest_ presents,” he said happily, stooping to kiss the angel warmly on the cheek. He glanced over at the car, his body still arced over Crowley’s. “I assume no internal damage?”

“To the car or the human?” Crowley arched an eyebrow.

“Either. Both. I know that grumpy bitch would get her revenge if I ruined the upholstery.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “You be nice to her. She’s having a bad day.”

Aziraphale considered his options. “Ohhh! It’s been eversuch a long time, but could I do it like I did it in the 80s?”

Crowley’s eyes gleamed. “That sounds reasonable.” He proffered his cheek again. “I’ll do the clean-up after, if you get the same results.”

Aziraphale beamed kissing his way along Crowley’s cheek to drop a last kiss on his lips. “I’ll try to have him out of the car before that happens.”

Crowley reached up blindly to pet his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve cleaned up worse. Just do what you do best.”

Aziraphale rounded his eyes. “But darling, you forbade that in the car!”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Don’t start. You _know_ what I meant.” He flapped his hand again. “Go on. Then we can order something in for dinner.”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands together greedily. “As you wish.” He trotted over to the car, tilting the passenger seat forward to climb into the backseat, then snapped his fingers to pull the door closed behind him. A last nod to Crowley and he shifted form just as the trembling moment of stillness inside the car popped like a bubble.

The thief fumbled under the steering wheel and Aziraphale slithered up over the back of his seat, mouth close to the little thief’s ear, and flickered out his tongue with a low hiss.

_________________________

The thief threw himself against the door and screamed again.

Crowley got up and wandered closer, sipping his coffee. Aziraphale wasn’t even _doing _anything. Well, not much beyond coiling himself around the young man like an overly-friendly comforter, his snout close to the man’s face, his coils a rolling jumble all over the seats.

Their unwanted guest tried slamming his elbow through the window, but a flick of Crowley’s fingers made it that little bit sturdier. Bulletproof even and the man howled in pain, clutching his arm and cringing against the glass, fumbling with the windows, trying to open it.

A good minute passed before he noticed Crowley standing an arm’s length away, watching with amused interest.

“Help me!” he howled, slapping at the glass. “There’s a fucking snake in here.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Yes. I know.” He waggled his fingers at Aziraphale over the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t eat you.”

“EAT ME??!?!”

“Boa constrictor,” Crowley said cheerfully, making sure with a tiny miracle that his voice carried through the glass. “If he starts squeezing, that’s when you have to worry. They squash their prey to death, you know.”

Aziraphale took his cue beautifully, and the screams increased in pitch.

“YOU GOTTA GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Crowley inclined his head. “Do I?” He took another sip of his coffee. “You broke in. I’m sure you can break out again.”

The man stared at him, face grey with panic. “You son of a bitch!”

Crowley bent closer, his face an inch from the glass, and stared into the human’s eyes. “If you think screaming abuse at me is the way to earn my forgiveness, _child_,” he murmured, resonance humming through the words. “you are _very_ much mistaken.” Around him, his wings flared like shadows, blotting out the world. “Try again.”

It took the man a few attempts, several more of Aziraphale’s more persistent coils and a lot of snot and tears.

“Please,” he keened. “Please, help me. I’m sorry.”

Crowley set his mug on the roof of the car and opened the door. Aziraphale obliging unravelled enough for the sobbing, sodden man to crawl out, gasping and clutching at Crowley’s arms. Crowley steadied him, staring him down, daring him to find his lost bravado when faced with a serpent at his back and a thousand-eyed angel at his front.

“Don’t,” Crowley murmured, “do it again.” He leaned a little closer and warned softly, “I’ll know.”

As soon as he was untouched, the man gave a whimper and fled. Crowley folded in his wings, retrieved his cup and watched him go, kicking up gravel with every frantic step.

“Good turn of speed there,” Aziraphale said, unfurling from the interior of the car and onto two legs once more. He dusted himself down and smoothed his shirt. “You could’ve told me you were going to lock the door.”

“Just like the 80s,” Crowley said, smiling. He glanced at Aziraphale. “Am I forgiven for cancelling dinner?”

Aziraphale beamed at him, snaking an arm around his waist. “Darling, you _know_ how much I enjoy seeing you like that. I would _hire_ a dozen car thieves if it gave me the chance to see it more often.”

Crowley turned a pointed look on him, raising an eyebrow.

“But I won’t.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Obviously. I hate making you cross.”

Crowley smiled, swaying into him and claiming a kiss. “Good.”


	75. 2020 - September - Picnic

Technically, having picnics in St. James’s Park was frowned upon, but one could hardly consider one’s self a demon if one abided by the rules all the time. Still, as a precaution, Aziraphale laid a protective sigil around the boundary of the blanket to keep any pesky squirrels or demanding pigeons at bay.

“That’s a bit unnecessary, isn’t it?” Crowley said, amused.

“I’ve _met_ these pigeons before, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a dignified sniff. “I am not making the same mistake twice.” He smoothed out the tartan blanket and shooed her away. “Go on. You wanted to go and visit the family. I’ll get things set up.”

Crowley beamed at him and skipped off in the direction of the pond, surrounded as it was by autumn leaves. Six or more generations down the line and she still hadn’t explained how she had come to be the grandparent to a legion of St. James’s ducks or how the ducks seemed to recognise her and flock to sit in her lap whenever she deigned to kneel down by the water.

Not that he could blame them, really.

He hummed happily to himself as he laid out a veritable little feast of finger-food, an even split of his own and Crowley’s favourites. A bottle of fine wine would normally have been there too, but for a year now, he had been improvising with a variety of different alcohol-free fruity cocktails. Mostly for the umbrellas. Crowley loved them and often would tuck them into her hair when the mood took her.

“Nice spread.”

Aziraphale glanced up. “Thank you.”

The young man was standing by the edge of the blanket, all long-legs and coiffed hair and perfectly-trimmed beard. “You needing company?”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Aziraphale peered into the basket. Was a candle a bit much? It was broad daylight after all.

Abruptly, the young man was lounging on the blanket. “You sure? I’m good company.”

“I’m sure you are.” Aziraphale shooed him with a flap of his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’m looking for something.”

“Maybe I can help?” The young man leaned closer.

Aziraphale sniffed. “That’s a rather nice cologne you have on,” he said, successfully liberating the cutlery wrap from the basket. “What’s it called?”

“Creed,” the man said, leaning even closer as if Aziraphale might want a closer scent. “Divine, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” It was certainly the kind of thing Crowley would like. He picked up one of the knives and started spreading some pate onto a biscuit, nibbling on it. Not bad. Possibly simple enough for the angel’s palate.

“What about you?”

The young man was still there? Well, he wasn’t getting in the way, at least, and he was nicely warming Crowley’s spot.

“What about me?”

The young man’s eyes were as dark as his hair. “Your whole look is just… God, it’s so _bold_. So authentic. I _love_ it.”

Aziraphale glanced down at his suit. “Well yes, obviously. I’m a traditionalist.”

“Mm. I hear that. Got to love the traditions. Bet you even did a pink carnation back in the day.” The man gave him a look that ought to have kept his attention, but the angel’s cocktail wasn’t about to make itself.

“Hm. Oh, yes. Carnations. Roses. Whatever came to hand.” The demon considered the bottles in the basket. “Hm. Mint and raspberry, perhaps…”

“Sounds good to me.”

Aziraphale looked at him in confusion, then around at the approaching warmth of his angel. “Ah, darling!” He beamed up at her. “How were the family?”

To his surprise, Crowley didn’t sit down on the blanket – well, no, of course not with a lanky human draped along it – but instead deposited herself – and her damned tease of a skirt – right down into his lap, draping an arm over his shoulder.

“Muh?” he inquired eloquently.

“The family are fine,” she said, curling her fingers into his hair. She rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “You didn’t introduce me to our new friend.”

He stared at her in confusion, then at the human. “Oh!” He flapped a hand. “You’re in my wife’s spot.”

The human went puce, scrambled to his feet with a stammered apology, and bolted off down the park.

Aziraphale sighed. “What a very odd fellow.”

“Odd?” Crowley remained happily settled in his lap. “That’s what you thought he was?”

“Well, yes.” He offered her one of the biscuits with pate.

“…you’re a bit distracted, aren’t you?”

He gave her waist a pointed squeeze. “My _wife_ is sitting on me.”

She tugged his earlobe. “Maybe… focus a bit. On the poor boy?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but complied, then blinked. “OH.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley nibbled on the biscuit.

“He was… flirting with me.”

“Yup.”

“And I _didn’t_ notice? Me? _I_ didn’t notice lust?” He felt his brow. “I must be ill.”

She grinned at him. “I could sense it from the pond. You’re losing your edge.”

“What if there’s something wrong?” he asked, worried. “I mean, perhaps–”

She kissed him and abruptly the rest of the world was drowned out in the sunshine warmth of her presence.

He blinked muzzily at her. “Oh.”

“Mm.” She grinned and that only made it worse. “I’ve drawn you away from sin and temptation with the bonds of holy matrimony.”

Aziraphale sputtered in outrage. “How _dare_ you!”

She laughed, leaning closer to whisper in his ear. “And if you behave, maybe actual bonds.”

He gave a happy little moan. “I _adore_ you, cherub.”

Crowley smiled, nestling happily against him. “I know.”


	76. 2020 - October - Feedback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's activities have some unexpected repercussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this one for a couple of weeks now and finally got the ending :)

Summer had turned to autumn again, and the leaves were starting to fall.

Crowley was well aware that Aziraphale would never be interested in gardening, but give the demon a sharp stick and things to poke, and he’d be as happy as a pig in muck. The demon was lunging around the garden with dramatic cries of “Take that! Aha!” and skewering rogue leaves. Crowley had his own work to do, picking the ripe fruit from the apple tree. The kids had managed most of it, but only when they were gone could he unfurl his wings and reach the highest branches.

He was balanced on one of the upper branches and had a basketful when Aziraphale’s voice reached him, sharp and tense.

Crowley peered down and his stomach knotted. He leapt, wings flaring, and dropped down between the demon and the Archangel standing just inside the gates.

“Michael.”

The Archangel gazed at him impassively. “Raziel.”

Once, he might have been polite about it, but that was then and this was now and this was his place. “No,” he said, meeting their eyes, cool, calm, though not entirely unafraid. “My name is Crowley.”

Michael inclined their head. “I remember,” they said. “An… earthly name.”

“For an earthly creature,” he replied evenly. “What do you want?”

Michael clasped their hands in front of them. “To talk.” Their eyes flicked to Aziraphale. “Privately.”

It was stupid how angry that made him. He glanced back at Aziraphale, who looked tense and pale, then stepped closer to him, still keeping his body between the demon and the other angel.

“If you want to speak to me, you speak with him too,” he said. He extended his hand back, offering reassurance. Strange how it felt like he was the one being reassured when Aziraphale immediately clasped his fingers. Their rings clicked against one another and he smiled. “Anything you want to say, he can hear.”

Their dark eyes flicked between them, a curious expression filtering onto their face. “I had… heard rumours,” they said mildly. “We knew of your… associating, but I hadn’t realised that it had become a permanent arrangement.”

“So you came to see for yourself?”

Michael shrugged mildly. “You’re still an angel.”

“Yes.” Crowley said. “I _am_.” He glanced back at Aziraphale. “Honestly, I don’t know why everyone is still so surprised.”

Michael’s face shifted. It took Crowley a minute to recognise a smile when he saw one. “You misunderstand my intentions, R–” They hesitated, then corrected, “_Crowley_. As an angel, we still receive notifications of your deeds and miracles.”

“Ah.” Crowley groaned. “Yeah, I know this memo. No offence, but I can do as many good deeds as I feel like. Heaven, Hell, whoever, they can take a long walk off a short pier. I’m doing my job, I’m doing it well, and I plan on keeping it that way.”

Michael held up a hand. “No,” they said, again, truly smiling now. “I came to talk to you about your act of salvation.”

“Eh?”

Michael reached for their pocket and Aziraphale growled in warning behind Crowley.

“I’m unarmed,” Michael murmured. “May I…?”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, unsurprised when the demon moved defensively closer. “By all means,” he said. Even if Michael wasn’t armed, the defences were secure enough to keep them from causing any real problem.

Michael withdrew a selection of photographs. They were shots taken from a distance, but he recognised the garden instantly. There should have been anger, but instead, there was just the weary grudging acknowledgement that of course they would have kept eyes on him, even if they hadn’t dared to approach.

“What’s this about?” he asked, setting down his basket and holding out his hand.

Michael approached and gave him the pictures. “Him.”

Crowley leafed through the sheaf of images. Hastur featured in every one of them. Not the first encounter, but later ones. Hastur sitting beside him on the bench. Shared coffee – Hastur hadn’t been impressed by black, but had developed a taste for Frappuccino – and biscuits. Both of them working in the garden together. The grumpy old demon genuinely smiling when the seed he had planted sprouted.

“That’s creepy,” Aziraphale said, staring at the picture of smiling Hastur. “I didn’t know his face could do that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said fondly. Hastur had fretted and worried so much about that little sapling that, for the first time in his life, Crowley had taken it upon himself to give the plant a stern talking to about what would happen if it dared to wither. It had bloomed beautifully and was turning into a lovely little tree.

“He’s a demon,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “And?”

“This one doesn’t judge,” Aziraphale put in smugly. “Unlike some people I could mention.”

Michael tapped the photograph. “In this moment, his joy registered in Heaven.”

Crowley blinked.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale said, sounding as astonished as Crowley felt.

“He experienced a moment of divine rapture.”

Crowley stared at the picture. “But… isn’t that impossible? I thought the whole point was that demons didn’t… that _She_ didn’t…”

Michael nodded.

“Oh…” Crowley’s hands shook around the pictures. “I– I didn’t realise it would– that I could help him like – oh fuck me–” He staggered back a step into Aziraphale, who caught him, steadying him.

“Breathe, darling,” Aziraphale said softly. “Breathe.”

“It’s… unprecedented,” Michael said almost as gently. “Now, do you understand why I came in person?”

Crowley nodded, leaning heavily into Aziraphale. He could feel the demon’s alarm, but his head was spinning and he couldn’t think straight and–

“We should get him into the house,” Aziraphale said, then bent and slipped his arms under Crowley’s legs and hoisted him up. Crowley wanted to protest that it wasn’t necessary, but quite frankly, it felt like his legs had turned to flan and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could’ve stood up for anyway. “Come on.”

“Centre,” Crowley said. “Could–”

“You need a comfy chair,” Aziraphale retorted. “Shut up and let me look after you.”

There was a muffled chuckle from behind them.

Very few people ever came into the chapter house. It had always been one of Crowley’s rules with the visitors to the centre: no one could go in without express invitation. One or two exceptions had been permitted entry but generally, no one but him and Aziraphale went inside.

It was weird with a capital wuh to see Michael standing in the room, as Aziraphale bustled about, fetching him a cup of his calming tea and generally fussing as if he was someone’s frail maiden aunt. He watched Michael watching Aziraphale. What they made of him, Crowley couldn’t begin to guess. Their only encounter before, as far as Crowley knew, was when it hadn’t even been Aziraphale driving the Aziraphale-suit.

Abruptly, the Archangel looked back at him. “So this is still your… home?”

Crowley nodded, leaning against the arm of the couch.

They looked around, then glanced out through the door into the gardens. “Well-defended,” they observed. “Moreso than it used to be.”

Crowley made a face as Aziraphale sat back down beside him. “More enemies than I used to have.”

Michael inclined their head in acknowledgement. “More than that,” they said. “It feels… unusual.”

“Neutral,” Crowley said, hands wrapped around his cup. “That’s what it is. This place is safe. For everyone. Even demons.”

Demons like Hastur.

Demons who had experienced…

He must’ve swayed again because Aziraphale’s arm was secure around him, his other hand under Crowley’s cup. He was saying something, but Crowley couldn’t hear it, his thoughts whirling far too fast for him to catch up.

It didn’t make sense, but in a way, it _did_.

He’d noticed Hastur staring at the garden when they’d sat down for coffee a couple of times. Had asked him if he wanted to do some weeding. Hastur had frozen up. Didn’t come back for weeks. When he did, he was quiet. Crowley gardened, Hastur watched. “You can try, if you want,” he’d offered. The cup had shattered in the demon’s hand.

Can’t, he’d said. Not anymore. Not since…

And slowly, gently, Crowley had drawn out the truth: while he had watched and helped build the Heavens, Hastur was one of those sent to build the earth. He had _created_ and now, he couldn’t touch it.

It’ll die, he’d insisted. It always dies.

That was the way of nature, Crowley said. Some things live, some things die. You can do nothing or you can take a risk and try to do something. The worst that could happen is nothing but the best…

Days, weeks later, the demon decided the risk was worth taking. Together, they’d planted a seed. No. Hastur had planted it. Crowley had let him do it, and when it started to grow, that was when he’d threatened, coerced and cajoled it. And it grew and for the first time since his Fall, Hastur had…

Had felt as he did when he was an angel.

What must that have felt like? To Fall and remain so for so many years, cut off from Her grace, and then, for no reason, nothing more than a small budding sapling, to feel her presence again, to feel the Divine Joy she could grant.

Crowley closed his eyes. His cheeks were hot and wet and Aziraphale stroked the tears away.

“Darling?” he prompted gently.

Crowley tilted his cheek into Aziraphale’s palm and took a shaky breath. “What does this mean?” he said, raising his eyes to Michael. “For him? For us? For you?”

“We don’t know,” Michael said and Crowley could imagine how much that irritated them. “This… changes things.”

“If word gets out about this,” Aziraphale murmured, “you’ll have a line of demons knocking on the door.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Crowley protested. “I just– we just talked and gardened and– I don’t know what I did!” He looked at Aziraphale, panicked, then back at Michael. “Is he all right? Hastur? If– what if Hell did something? What if they–”

Michael raised a hand. “He’s unharmed. Untouched.” The faintest of smiles touched their lips. “Hell want to understand what’s happening as much as we do.”

“But I don’t know!” Crowley exclaimed. “I don’t know what to tell you! It was a one-time thing!”

“Ah.” Michael cleared their throat. “Not entirely. We have a couple of similar spikes, but we couldn’t identify the cause.” They looked at Aziraphale. “Perhaps you can clarify for us, demon. What could have triggered a moment of divine rapture for you on the twenty-seventh of August?”

“Me?” Aziraphale frowned. “I haven’t had any– Oh.” To Crowley’s astonishment, the demon flushed scarlet. “Oh. Shit.”

And there was only one thing that ever made Aziraphale that flustered. And Crowley frantically counted back the days to that date.

“Oh!” Crowley felt his own face flame. “Fuck.”

“No,” Aziraphale said a little hoarsely. “You were very particular about that. Very much not _that_.”

No. Not that. Very much the polar opposite. In a church. With the giving and receiving of rings. And Knowing. In the Biblical sense.

What God has joined, Crowley remembered weakly.

Michael made a muffled sound, their hand over their mouth, trying very hard to appear that they weren’t laughing. “I… assume,” they said, a little tightly, “you would not be… pursuing that particular approach with any other demons.”

“No!”

Aziraphale’s possessive growl underscored the word, the demon curling over him.

“What he’s saying is that he’s my husband,” Crowley said, leaning sideways. “And that no, I won’t be… doing anything like that with other demons.”

That made Michael’s eyebrows rise. “Husband?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale growled, glaring at them. “What of it?”

“Marriage?” the Archangel said. “_Holy_ matrimony?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale snapped. “And?” He seemed to catch up with what they were implying. “Oh. Oh Christ…” He swung around, staring at Crowley. “Does this mean we have Her blessing? Oh, bugger me…”

“I think that might have been the issue,” Crowley muttered for his ears only. Aziraphale flushed, then pinned him back against the couch, kissing him. “Az–” Crowley pushed at his face, unsuccessfully trying to avoid the kisses. “Azira– ack! Stop it! We have company!”

Aziraphale turned and with an imperious wave flipped the door wide open. “If you don’t mind fucking off now, I need to take care of my…” he frowned and Crowley could almost picture him scrolling through a list for a name he hadn’t used yet.

Crowley pushed him back. “Stop it.” He looked up at Michael. “Whatever has or hasn’t happened, it wasn’t intentional, but if it happens again…” He shrugged. “I’m not actively trying to do anything. You know that. If She wants it to happen, it’ll happen.”

It was the echo of words exchanged more than five thousand years ago.

“Understood,” Michael murmured. “I will make sure that everyone is made aware of the… situation.” They strode back towards the door, then paused and glanced back. One side of their mouth turned up. “Mazel tov.”

Aziraphale snorted, snapping his fingers and slamming the door behind them.

Crowley half-expected Aziraphale resume his advances, but instead the demon’s blue eyes searched his face, worry visible in his expression.

“Are you… all right, darling?”

Crowley reached up to stroke his cheek. “Yeah. Just… a bit surprised. You?”

“Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Touching the divine,” Crowley pointed out. “I know you and… I… you never wanted to go back. I know that. I’m sorry if I–”

A kiss smothered his words and Aziraphale only drew back when they were both breathless.

“My dearest,” he said, tenderly, his lips still brushing Crowley’s. “You are the only divine thing I will ever touch again.” He punctuated his words by dragging Crowley into his lap. “And I intend to make you _sin_ like there’s no tomorrow.”

Crowley laughed, wrapping his arms around the demon’s neck. “Promise?”

“For eternity,” Aziraphale purred as his hands slid under Crowley’s shirt. “Now, darling, shall we?”

Crowley sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair and twisted them, making his husband growl against his lips. “Hell yes.”


	77. 2020 - November - Big Bang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee prompt from Rocket-pool - The sky is falling.

“If you’ve changed your mind…”

“Just a minute!” Crowley’s voice rang through the door. “I’m almost ready.”

Aziraphale sighed patiently, leaning against the wall outside the chapter house. “I don’t see why I couldn’t stay in there with you,” he complained amiably. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you in every state of undress.”

“If you stayed in here with me,” Crowley called back, “I’d be running even later.”

The demon grinned.

It _was_ a fair point.

Marriage was _fun_. Especially when – two months later – you could still be classed as newlywed and people would excuse you being excessively romantic and ridiculous at one another. He had been enthusiastic testing the limits of the tolerance of the regular visitors to the centre. So far, only a small handful had turned to eyerolling.

Finally, the handle of the door creaked and he straightened up.

“Don’t laugh,” Crowley warned.

“Why would I–” His words evaporated like mist on a summer morning.

Christ on a cracker, she looked adorable. And autumn incarnate, with warm browns and creams and a touch of honey. Oh Lord, she was like a darker variation of his own colours, right down to the knee length tartan skirt she was wearing and the rich brown woollen coat. The ridiculously oversized woolly hat was the cherry on the cake.

He opened his mouth, then had to shut it when no words came out.

Crowley could tell. Damned angel was always very good at telling and the nervous look turned into a quietly smug smile on...

Oh Hell.

Lipstick.

Lord, why had he agreed to human-style dates, when she had come out looking like that?

“That good, eh?” Crowley said, pulling the door firmly shut behind her, as if she could read Aziraphale’s thoughts. She tucked her arm through Aziraphale’s. “Where are we going tonight?”

Aziraphale threw a longing look back at the door. Inside would be good. It was warm in there and the angel had lots of interesting new clothing to remove.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, trying for stern but sounding more giggly than anything. She tugged on his arm. “You promised me an evening out with my husband.”

All at once, he was smiling as idiotically as she was. “You can stop weaponising that against me any time you like, my pumpkin,” he said, finally making himself walk forward.

“I will,” she said, “the day you stop randomly nouning me.”

He flashed a happy smile her way. “Then, my sugarcube, it appears we are at an impasse.”

Crowley gave a dramatic sigh. “My poor, poor unfortunate husband. What’s to become of him?”

Aziraphale had to look away to hide the idiotic spread of his smile. “Would my _wife_ like to know where we’re going, then?”

Crowley nodded, crunching along the gravel beside him.

“What’s the date, my petal?”

Crowley frowned. “Er… after Halloween? But before Christmas?”

“Remember, remember,” Aziraphale sing-songed.

“Oh! Right! Yes!” Crowley laughed. “Of course. November! Fifth of November!” She stopped dead, tugging on his arm. He could hear the suppressed excitement in her voice when she asked, “Are we going to fireworks?”

He smiled. “Wait and see.”

They could have taken the car, but despite the chill in the air, it was a pleasant enough night to walk along the bank of the Thames to Tower Bridge and the couple of miles to Southwark Park. Crowley leaned happily into him, giving off that lovely, soft glow that had settled around her like an aura.

Aziraphale glanced at her, unable to keep from smiling.

There was something inherently delightful about walking arm-in-arm on a brisk autumn evening, arm in arm, uncaring of who saw them.

“You’re getting soft,” she teased, as they approached the park. “You’re doing googly eyes again.”

“Can I help it, when my lady is so fair?”

Crowley rolled her eyes, blushing and socked him playfully on the chest. “Shaddup.”

“I could do worse,” he suggested, leaning in. “I could detail all the ways I want to denude you of your golden leaves and garb and scatter them about the ground.”

“That,” Crowley whispered, leaning closer still, “is because you’re a dirty great pervert.”

Aziraphale flashed a winning smile at her. “It’s as if you know me, my beloved!” He nudged her playfully. “But in all honestly, I will peel you out of those tights with my teeth when we get home.”

Despite her blush, she met his eyes and he saw the spark of fire in amber in them. “Who said they were _tights_?” She reached down and flicked up the hem far enough to show a glimpse of garter and Aziraphale had to stop walking and take a slow, steadying breath.

Crowley looked far too smug. “Problem, hubbie?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a little hoarsely. “I think I’m married to it.” He glanced back. “We _could_ go home already…” She raised an eyebrow. “But then I’d never get to see the stockings, would I?” He sighed mournfully. “You drive a hard bargain.”

She laughed. “Just wait til you see what else I’m wearing,” she murmured.

“Angel!” Aziraphale wailed, as though the very sky was falling.

She squeezed his arm. “Fireworks out here first,” she said, her voice warm with promise, “Then our own kind of fireworks at home.”

Aziraphale eyed her. “You’re a wicked tease, my love.”

“I don’t tease,” Crowley said, all wicked smile and mischief. “I _promise_.”

Aziraphale had to lean into her, a moan catching in his throat at the images dancing across his mind’s eyes. Lord, he had certainly caught the most singular angel in all of Heaven. It was very possible Crowley would never stop surprising him. And he was very excited to take that chance.


	78. 2020 - November - Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature rating on this chapter :) It's set immediately after Big Bang (aka, the one where they go to a fireworks display)

Crowley wasn’t surprised when Aziraphale suggested getting a taxi back after the fireworks display finished. Despite all the shiny distractions and sweets, Aziraphale had ended up curled possessively around Crowley for the whole show, pretty much vibrating.

And as much as Crowley wanted to pretend it was annoying, it had felt like wrapping himself in a warm layer of Aziraphale’s affection for the whole night, keeping the evening chill at bay as they shared buttery popcorn and sticky toffee apples.

“You’re an impatient bugger,” she informed the demon, when their cab hurtled west in the direction of St. Dunstan’s hill.

Aziraphale gave Crowley’s knee a squeeze. “And you’re a tease.” He nuzzled at Crowley’s ear. “Did I mention how adorable you look in those colours?”

His hand was inching upwards and Crowley demurely put out her hand and stayed it. “Once or twice.”

Aziraphale turned his hand over, snaring hers, and lifted it to his fingers. “In case anyone had any doubts who you are tied to.”

Crowley fought down a smile, but couldn’t help herself when he’d wandered straight into it. “Can’t say you’ve ever had me _tied_, can you?”

“That’s not–” He went a fantastic shade of pink. “Damn it, angel! Why do you insist on filling my head with images?”

Crowley leaned closer, grinning. “Because it’s fun,” she said, bringing her other hand over and giving his thigh a squeeze a little higher than was respectable. So close, she saw Aziraphale’s eyes widen and heard the shallow, sharp breath. “And you _like_ it.”

Aziraphale stared at her, then lunged, catching her lips in a kiss. His hand was in her hair and she laughed as he squirmed around to try and draw her closer.

“Not yet,” she chastised with a tap to his knee, and slid back to the far side of the seat, pulling her skirt away from his wandering hand and smoothing it back in place. “I’ll want you on your best behaviour.”

“Scurrilous minx,” Aziraphale groaned theatrically, clutching his chest. “You don’t love me at all!”

She pressed her lips together to fight down the smile. “Eh,” she said.

“Eh?” Aziraphale widened his eyes in mock dismay. “_Eh_?”

“Well, you’re all right, aren’t you?” Crowley said, all innocence and virtue. “I mean, not perfect. Handsy and filthy and what have you.”

“I– well, technically, I’ll allow that.” The demon scooted a little closer, sweeping Crowley’s hand back up in his. “And we can’t have two of us in the relationship being perfect anyway. It simply would be too much for the world to cope with.”

Crowley _really_ wanted to have a witty come back. Instead she had “buh…” and an embarrassingly hot blush.

“Ha!” Aziraphale chuckled, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “That’s more like it.”

She pushed her palm in his face with a laugh. “Oh, shut up.” Still, she took his hand and smiled out of the window as the car continued north.

To his credit, Aziraphale behaved himself as far as the chapter house door, when she was twirled around and straight into her waiting husband’s arms, then firmly pinned up against said door and thoroughly kissed.

“Are you trying to concuss me?” she murmured against his lips when they finally broke apart.

“Pardon?”

She tilted her head sideways, letting him see the knocker. “I mean, I know you wanted to make the house a knocking shop, but–” She squeaked as she was swept up off the ground into Aziraphale’s arms and he glared at the knocker. Didn’t quite disperse the fresh blush on his face.

“An accident, my lamb,” the demon sighed, then gave the door a firm kick with a little bit of a miracle behind it. It swung inwards at once and he carried her in, sinking to his knees to deposit her on the couch. “Satisfied?”

She gave him a considering look, then caught him by the shirt front and pulled him closer. “Your coat off, _husband_, and shoes, and then we’ll see where the night goes.”

The flare of lust in his eyes was unmistakable and he was back across the room to shed his shoes and coat onto the rack by the door. She took his distraction to kick off her own shoes and clamber to sit on her usual spot on the arm of the couch. But – for a bit of tantalising variety – she propped one foot on the back of the couch, knee raised, so her skirt gave way to gravity and slid down over her thigh. The length of her garter was visible.

Aziraphale swung back around and his eyes flared into full, shimmering blue, his forked tongue darting out. He took a step closer, but she put up her hand.

“Ah, ah.” She undid the buttons at the top of her coat and shrugged out of it. “_Best_ behaviour.”

The demon pouted so well, shifting from foot to foot, swaying, watching, mesmerised and mesmerising in turn.

“Hang this up,” she said, tossing the coat over to him.

He caught it with a flourish and swept into a bow. “Whatever my mistress desires,” he purred, his expression heated.

Crowley had to admit she was relieved for a second to gather her wits as he hung the coat on its peg. She adjusted the skirt then attempted to lean on the arm of the couch in what she had heard was an alluring manner.

Turned out she wasn’t very good at it and Aziraphale burst out laughing as soon as he turned around. “Darling, please don’t,” he wheezed, shaking his head.

“Not… vixeny enough?” Crowley guessed, straightening up.

“That’s the kind of pose for ladies with…” The demon made a rolling gesture in front of his chest. “You can’t stick out what isn’t really there, can you?”

Crowley made a face. “Suppose not.” Instead, she swung her legs around and straddled the arm of the couch, pressing both hands on the arm. With one foot on the couch and the other braced on the floor, her skirt was around her hips and both garters were on display, as well as the thin border of lace they were hooked on to. She didn’t really need to ask, when Aziraphale’s face turned a darker shade of puce, but did it anyway. “Is that more like it?”

“Nngh.” The demon agreed eloquently. He pointed. “Knickers.”

“That’s what I love about you,” Crowley said, grinning from ear to ear. “Powers of observation.”

Aziraphale started towards her, but Crowley held up a finger, stopping him in his tracks. “If you ladder these stockings, you sleep on the couch tonight.” Aziraphale nodded, fingers twitching, and she smiled, then leaned back, hands behind her, and offered him her foot. “With your teeth, you said.”

He caught her foot so gently in his fingers, as if he was holding spun glass. The kisses began at the sharp jut of her ankle and she shivered happily as they ventured north. The stockings were so sheer, they might as well have been made from thin air and when he sank to kneel on the couch beside her, his breath was hot and tantalising against her thigh.

“You drive me to distraction, my lovely gazelle,” he murmured, gazing up at her between kisses to her thigh as he lifted her leg to rest on his shoulder.

Crowley reached down, stroking her fingers through her hair. He enjoyed these games and by default, that means she enjoyed them too. It’s such fun seeing how many times she can turn his brain to scrambled eggs in one night.

“You talk too much,” she said with a firm tug to his earlobe.

He pouted, then applied his teeth to the clips of her garter.

Of course he managed to unclip it first time. That was one of the unfortunate side-effects of falling in with a previously promiscuous demon. Aziraphale had a wealth of experiences in getting people of both genders out of various kinds of clothing.

He dipped under her leg, his curls brushing at the apex of her thighs, as he worked on the other. With teeth and lips, he started to nudge the stocking down. Slow and careful, she noticed with a fond smile. Taking her at her threat.

“You’re doing very well,” she murmured and that pout of his turned into a smile.

Once he was passed the knee, the job was as good as done. He descended back to the floor, tugging from her toes, until the slither of smooth nylon slipped all the way down, inch by inch. He met her eyes, stocking still gripped between his teeth, and lifted her foot for her inspection.

Crowley leaned forward, sliding her fingers along his jaw, and caught the stocking in her hand. “Not that I don’t trust you,” she said and tugged. There was no damage at all, but she knew that anyway and still made a show of examining every inch. His fingertips drummed impatiently against her foot, and she gave him a stern look. “What did I say about best behaviour?”

“And allow you to torture me so?” He widened his eyes in appeal. “Darling…”

She drew the stocking between her hands, smoothing it, and admiring the way it made him swallow and lick at his lips. Some of their games, she was still learning, but she’d always been a fast study. If you learned how to remake the universe, you could learn how to tease – and tame – a mischievous demon.

“One kiss,” she allowed. “Anywhere you choose.”

His lips parted over sharp teeth and at once, he pressed a reverent feather-light flutter of a kiss against the sole of her foot. Crowley’s hands tightened on the stocking, the sensation like a lightning bolt right through her.

“One,” he agreed, though it didn’t stop him rubbing his cheek against the side of her foot. His breath was so warm and she had to shake herself, remind herself to focus.

He was smiling, as if he had just spun the board and stolen the lead. Well… she would just have to take it back. She pulled her leg back, the swung the other one around, offering that foot too. “Same rules, Aziraphale. Not a single ladder. Not a hole.” She smiled as he lunged in, too greedy for the bait. Her fingers sank into his hair and twisted and he gave a shocked – and very pleased – groan. “Shall we make this more interesting?”

“Interesting?” His voice had sunk to that hungry growl.

“Mm.” A spark of power rippled around her fingers and he jolted. “Not a ladder. Not a hole.”

He leaned into her, pressing his mouth hotly to her outer thigh, then shuddered again as she let the course of power flare down and out from his spine to his extremities. “Distracting,” he complained, though the throaty purr in his voice suggested it was a welcome distraction.

“You were too proud of yourself,” Crowley teased, carding her fingers through his hair. “That’s one of the sins, you know.” She watched, waited, until his mouth was at the clip, then sent another skittering bloom of power. His teeth slipped, raking her thigh. “Ah!” She tightened her grip on his hair. “You’ll have to be more careful, won’t you?”

His heavenly eyes tilted up towards her. “Of course, beloved,” he growled.

She softened her hold. “And I’ll spoil you if you manage.”

He kissed the skin around the clip in acknowledgement and slowly, cautiously set to work.

Crowley wasn’t a cruel kind of tease, but there was something fun about watching Aziraphale – all grand gestures and bombast – working millimetre by millimetre. He was almost holding his breath, his whole body taut and only giving way to the slightest of shudders as she sent thrums of power skittering erratically through him. What had taken less than two minutes on her other leg took closer to fifteen and by the time he drew the stocking off, his hands were twitching and trembling from the effort of holding himself still.

“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, as gentle as a lamb. “You’ve done so well.” She held out her hand. “Now, let me check.”

He gave a great shiver when she withdrew her hands from his hair, turning over the stocking and checking every inch. He hadn’t even left a mark and she smiled, setting the stocking aside. His eyes flicked from her to it and back again.

“Undamaged?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes. Now… for your reward.” She would’ve had to have been blind to miss the indrawn breath of anticipation. “I could give you a gold star.” Her lips twitched. “I have a sheet in the drawer.”

“Angel,” Aziraphale’s voice was more growl than anything now.

She laughed. God, it was fun when he was trying his best to behave. “All right,” she agreed. “One kiss. Anywhere you want. Only one. Understood.”

His tongue slid along his lips and then he struck like a cobra, his body surging up, and his mouth finding that delicious – and bloody annoying – sensitive place just below her right ear. He _knew_ it was the one place guaranteed to turn her to butter, made worse by the fact he tilted her back, arched out over thin air as his lips scorched as hot as a brand.

The allotted kiss slid into a second more furtive one and she clutched at the front of his shirt, his arm around her waist, palm spread low on her back.

“I said,” she hissed close to his ear, “_one_.”

He lifted his head, lips curling, eyes gleaming. “Oh. Dear me.” And then, because she damn well knew he would do it for spite, he dragged his lips over the bruise he had left.

Crowley hissed again. “No, _dear_.” Her voice was low and warning. “I warned you about best behaviour.”

The blessed thing about Aziraphale was that he knew exactly how strong she could be. So when she shoved herself up, pushing him, when she was on her feet, and he was held – suspended – off the ground, he looked as if all his Christmases had come at once. His shirt was bunched in her fists and she clicked her tongue.

“You always have to try your luck, don’t you?”

He nibbled his lip, wide-eyed. “You’re simply too delectable, darling. How was I meant to resist?”

Crowley gazed up at him. Aziraphale always did like pushing a boundary or two, but sometimes, he did need more stick than carrot for a lesson to linger. And sometimes, he liked to pretend he forgot how sharp she could be.

His feet were scarcely back on the ground when she caught the front of his shirt and wrenched it open. Buttons scattered everywhere but before he could open his mouth to protest, she pressed her fingers to sternum and _touched_.

Aziraphale’s eyes flew wide and he staggered back a step.

“D-darling!” he croaked.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Crowley murmured, taking a step to match his. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but it was…slow, seeking, cresting energy, enough to make him reel and sway. “You know I don’t like to hurt you, but I _do_ need to know you’ll do what you’re told.”

He was staring at her with a new expression now. There was trepidation, but there was also eagerness, and from the swell in his trousers, he was definitely not adverse to it.

Right. Right, okay. Behaving. What else had they talked about? Oh, yes!

“Hands behind your back,” she said.

His tongue flickered out, touching his lips, and he obeyed. Of course he did. He would do anything she asked of him. Push a bit too far to see what would happen, but love, honour, obey was a creed for him. He would never not obey.

Crowley’s hands shook a bit as she picked up the stockings and circled around behind him. His hands were twitching as well, as if he could guess where her train of thought was going.

“Do you remember the word I gave you?” she murmured.

Aziraphale nodded. “Sssamsung,” he hissed.

She pressed her hand to his forearm, so warm through the cloth of his shirt. “Same rules, okay? If you don’t like something, if you want me to stop–”

“Never!” Aziraphale flashed such a heated look at her she flushed.

“Just in case,” she murmured and then – as Eve had learned with her – looped the stocking over, under and around, a complicated and intricate pattern. A secure knot. Something made to keep goats from straying and captive men where they were meant to be. The sound Aziraphale made send a ripple the length of her spine. “Comfy?”

Aziraphale’s breathing was uneven, but he nodded, then hissed between his teeth as the second stocking swept over his eyes. “Angel!”

“You lose your privileges when you misbehave,” she said, trying very hard to sound stern, but fighting a grin as Aziraphale whined, twisting his head this way and that. She caught his shoulder and pressed. “On your knees.”

He dropped at once, tilting his head expectantly. “Are you going to punish me?”

Crowley gazed down at him fondly, then carded her fingers through his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss again. “If I am, it won’t be any of the way you want me to punish you, will it?” She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t forget your word.”

He grumbled when she released his hair and stepped around him. “Won’t need it.”

Crowley sat down on the edge of the couch in front of him, watching him. There were plenty of ways to torment Aziraphale and ignoring him was one of the easier ones, but that wasn’t any fun and definitely not the way she wanted to end such a good night. Was there, she wondered, a slow grin spreading across her face, such a thing as _too_ much of a good thing?

He swayed from side to side gently on his knees, head turning this way and that, as if he could read her presence from sound and scent. His tongue darted out, sweeping along his lower lip.

Crowley bit her lip as she stretched out one leg and traced her toes from his knee to his inner thigh, admiring the shudder that ricocheted through him. She had done a decent amount of research in his shop when he wasn’t paying attention and had to admit she was curious about how he’d react if…

Turned out Aziraphale groaned like he was dying when she rubbed her foot against the front of his trousers. His effort was making itself known and when he pushed his hips towards her sole, she slipped her foot up to press against his belly.

“Best behaviour,” she reminded him, then slid down off the couch to knee face-to-face with him. Her skirt brushed his trousers and she leaned closer so he could feel the ripple of cloth as she peeled her blouse off over her head.

“Darling… I wanted to…”

Crowley pressed her fingers to his lips. “And if you’d behaved I might’ve let you see what I was wearing under it.” The whine was wretched and she laughed and swatted his belly. “Don’t come crying to me. You brought this on yourself.” She leaned a little closer, so close the tip of her nose brushed his. “And you’re a naughty bastard, aren’t you?”

“Demon!” Aziraphale protested. “You can’t expect best behaviour all the time.”

Crowley grinned, leaning in and kissing the lobe of his ear. “I can when it’s my husband and he wants to see my lingerie,” she breathed and – in the same breath – pressed her hand against the front of his trousers.

Aziraphale gave a small, utterly heartfelt moan, his head dropping forward to rest on her shoulder. “I suppose sorry won’t do?” he said plaintively, nuzzling her skin.

Crowley caught his hair with her other hand and yanked his head back. “And nor will trying to figure out what it is with your nose and mouth, you dirty bugger.”

He gave her a sheepish grin that wavered when a snap of her fingers unravelled his belt and popped open his buttons. “M-my dear…”

She kept one hand fast in his hair as she slipped her hand under his silken boxer shorts and wrapped the other around his arousal. He was already hot and wet and heavy against her palm, though to his credit, he tried not to rock himself into her touch.

Slowly, deliberately, she applied a little flicker of power.

Aziraphale shuddered as if an electric charge had shot down his spine, air hissing through his clenched teeth.

The colour scorched up his face as she added a little more power, a little more intensity, and his breathing became a little more frantic, urgent, sharpened as she moved two fingers slowly, slowly downwards.

“A-angel…”

“Is this what you wanted?” she asked, all honeyed sweetness and innocence. The surge made him yelp and writhe, his neck arching, hair tangled around her fingers.

“Fuck…” he keened. “Oh Christ!”

“It’s funny,” she said gently, “I ask nicely and you still misbehave…” She tugged on his hair, pulling him downwards, sideways, to sprawl. He fell into the trap, not seeing the gentle landing that came right before she took the length of him in her hand, two fingers to the base, and let the wave of power surge.

Aziraphale’s whole body arched off the floor, hips juddering against her. He was close and… well… that was a tell she knew well and wasn’t about to indulge. A lesson had to be learned after all. She lifted her hand away as he gasped into the carpet, whole body taut as a bow. It took him a good few minutes to sag back down.

“Not fair,” he huffed close to her knee. “Bad for me, stopping like that.”

“Stopping this?” Her hand was one him again, gentler now, pulsing eddies, and Aziraphale bucked against her palm, squirming onto his back, arching up over his bound arms. He rutted against her palm desperately, as if expecting her to…

“Ah ah.” She lifted her hand away.

“Angel!” His hips dropped back to the floor with a bump, his hardness redder and the heat of it lingering against her palm. He lay there, the flush spreading all over his chest, legs splayed and graceless, and raw gasps leaking from his lips.

Crowley studied him, then everso lightly, touched a fingertip to his nipple, circling it slow and gentle, light enough that at first, he would never even notice the fresh fire she was kindling. He made a soft, greedy sound of approval, though his hips were still twitching, as if he could find some release.

The spark – when she let it flare – made him yell loud enough to shake the rafters.

She grinned, watching him writhing, as she tracked it with her finger. All the fun little erogenous zones to try out. A push of power here, a ripple there, a swirl of her fingers nudging the feeling of heat and love and rapture deeper and wider into every pore.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Aziraphale wailed, heels thumping and pushing against the floor. “Christ! Angel! Just– just– something!”

“All right,” she said and lifted her hand away.

“NOT THAT!” He squirmed closer, nudging against her knees. “Angel, darling, please…”

She stroked his cheek gently. “I like it when you behave. You know that. You didn’t behave, did you?”

“No,” he agreed raggedly. “No, I didn’t. Should’ve, but Christ, angel… please…” He almost wailed when she took him in her hand again. “Yes, please, please, please…”

“Oh, I’m not nearly finished with you yet, _husband_.”

Even through the stockings, she could tell his eyes were wide. His mouth went slack as a fresh surge of power shot through him from the single point of contact. Colour flooded his body, muscles pulling taut, as his breath turned to a rasped moan. A touch, a hand away, a touch, as she tugged as the fraying threads of his self-control and he writhed and wriggled and squirmed.

“Pleasssssssse…” He was halfway sobbing against her knee.

“The word is yours if you need it,” Crowley said gently. “I’d never make a lesson too hard for you to bear.”

Aziraphale whimpered, shaking his head against the floor. He looked captivating like that, Crowley thought, watching him. It was strange and wonderful, knowing she could reduce him to it with only a handful of touches and he_ would let her_. He _liked_ it when she took charge. He _loved_ it when she left him wordless and helpless and speechless.

And it shocked her how much she really, _really_ liked it too.

“Good boy,” she said, loosening her grip on his hair to stroke through the sweat-damped curls. “See? You can behave so well when you want.” This time, the flutter of power was gentler through him and he shivered, gasping. “D’you know how good you look like this? I don’t think you do.”

The flush returned, darkening Aziraphale’s face. “Mm.” He shook his head again.

Oh, yes, that was a special kind of turn-on for him, wasn’t it?

“You’re _beautiful_,” Crowley murmured as he coiled around her, all but foetal around his aching hardness. “I _love_ touching every part of you, y’know.” She ran her fingers – sparking – the length of his spine, her heart flipping at sensation of scales flaring there. Oh, he was coming apart and still holding himself together for her, at her request and order. “I love how much you _like_ it.” A flicker of her hand and his trousers and boxers vanished like mist. Her fingertips skimmed over the curve of his bum, his hips shuddering. “Do you want me to let you finish?”

“Please,” he whispered into her thigh. “Pleasssssssssse.”

A touch of a miracle to her skin and she slipped two fingers slowly into him.

“Oh fuck….” Aziraphale whispered faintly, writhing against her. There was a note of panicked anticipation in his voice. “Oh God, angel. I’ll… it’ll…”

She stroked and his words skittered out like dropped marbles. Gentle, gentle, tender.

“I don’t have to,” she reminded him gently. “The word. You can stop me now.”

He turned his face up towards hers and even with the blindfold, she could see the devotion pouring off him. He shook his head, lips opening and shutting in soundless plea, and she slipped her other hand under his head, cradling him gently, then _thrust_ with all the love and adoration and bliss within her.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t have the air for it, his whole body surging with the force of his release of the power pulsing through him. When he slumped, sagged, boneless and shuddering, she drew her hand from his body. It took no work at all to free his wrists and gently pull him up to rest in her arms, his head heavy against his shoulder, his breath scaldingly hot.

For a long, long while, she cradled him there, stroking his cheek and listening as the frenetic gasps became deeper and more even. When he took a slow shuddering breath and knocked his lips against her collarbone, she smiled.

“Bed?” she asked.

“Ngh,” he agreed vaguely.

The easiest way to get him up the staircase was to fling him over her shoulder. He hung there like a sack of potatoes, limp and boneless, and she trotted up the stairs. The fact he didn’t even try to pat her bum said everything about the state she’d left him in.

Crowley tipped him onto the bed and he flopped out on his back, starfishing across the covers. His cheeks were still flushed and pink and she ran her thumb along his lips.

“Thirsty?”

“Mm.”

His mug was – as always – there and refilled in an instant. She rose to fetch it, then hesitated.

“I think you’ve behave well enough now.”

“Mm?” There was an optimistic note to the sound.

Crowley unbuttoned her skirt and let it drop, then leaned over him and untied his blindfold. Solidly blue eyes squinted at her, then drifted down. The low rumble of satisfaction that rattled through Aziraphale’s chest said more than a thousand words.

Crowley spun on the spot. “Do you like it?” she said, grinning. The knickers and bra were the same pale blue and texture as Aziraphale’s favourite pocket square, delicate and revealing. She went down on one knee on the edge of the mattress and let him see them more closely. Specifically the monogram on the front of the knickers.

The demon blinked at them, then slowly at her.

Crowley sprawled down beside him and hauled him bodily to rest between her legs again. “A special treat for you,” she murmured, reaching for his mug and lifting it down. She tilted it so he could sip the sweet tea, then leaned closer to his ear. “You can tuck it in your front pocket and no one will know the difference.”

Aziraphale promptly choked on his tea. “Angel!” he croaked.

She laughed and kissed his ear. “What? Too naughty?”

He tilted his head – and almost his whole body – to stare up at her. Crowley felt the blush crawl up the back of her neck.

“What is it?”

“You,” Aziraphale said, voice hoarse and wondering. “You’re… perfect.”

Crowley leaned down and kissed him. “And your brain has been orgasmed to death,” she said, though she couldn’t stop the blush or the big stupid smile all over her face. “Shut up and drink your tea.”

Aziraphale gave her the softest and most idiotically happy look and obeyed and she had to bury her face in his curls to keep the happiness from overflowing.


	79. 2020 - November - Tatters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot I had this chapter half-written for ages :D

Married life was a wonderful thing.

It was entirely lovely to wake up tangled in one another’s arms in the morning, to bid one another good day, then come together again in the evening with a collection of anecdotes to share. And yet, oddly, Aziraphale’s favourite part of the day was still breakfast.

He had begun a routine shortly after their reception and once he had thoroughly investigated all the nearby breakfast-making establishments. He had been rigorous in his assessments. Nothing but the best for an angel with a very limited diet.

Every morning, shortly after he woke, but before Crowley surfaced, he would trot out into the city to one of the three eateries who had earned the best rating and return with a selection of breakfast delicacies to indulge his angel. He even had a tray he had bought especially and every morning, he would take breakfast up the curving stairs and let the scent of fresh coffee serve as an alarm clock.

After one particularly… exciting evening, he slept a little later than usual, which – of course – threw everything off-kilter. There was a queue at the eaterie of choice and no amount of growling would dismiss it. The traffic was roaring and blocking his path home.

Lord, he hated to take a bad mood back to Crowley, but the pastries were soggy and limp, the coffee was getting cold and he really rather wanted to tear someone’s exhaust pipe off their car and shove it where it wouldn’t belch smoke into his face.

And, to make it worse, as he hurried up the gravel pathway, he could see movement in the lower level of the chapter house.

Aziraphale’s heart sank, as limp as his French pastry.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he burst out as he pushed the door open. “I slept in and then the…”

“Hm?”

Aziraphale tried to find his words. He’d dropped them. Along with all the bags. “Shirt,” he articulated, pointing.

Crowley, kitten-haired, half-asleep, peered down at himself. “Oh.” He smiled drowsily. “Found it on the floor. Was chilly.”

Was chilly.

Chilly, so he’d picked up and put on Aziraphale’s own shirt from the night before. The shirt he had been wearing when Crowley had done wonderful and unspeakably naughty things to him. The shirt that was considerably torn, where the angel had taken charge and – oh Hell, yes… he had ripped the clothing apart as if it was gossamer.

“O-oh.”

“It’s broken,” the angel added helpfully, lifting up the loose, buttonless flap.

“You…” Aziraphale gestured with his hands, his words still buggered off somewhere.

“Oh.” Crowley beamed sleepily. “Yeah. Sorry.” He did up two of the surviving buttons and sat down on the arm of the couch, his legs dangling on either side. “S’that breakfast?”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion, then looked down. “Oh! Yes!” He grabbed at the bags, already leaking coffee and milk everywhere. “Shit!”

Crowley snickered, waving a hand. The mess vanished instantly. “S’all right.” He stretched his arms up, yawning. “Can go out for breakfast, if you want.”

The shirt gaped open, showing a glimpse of bare belly and Aziraphale almost bit his tongue in half. It shouldn’t have been as erotic as it was. For Heaven’s sake, the angel slept _naked_. And yet somehow that tantalising peek of belly was more flirtatious than having a completely nude angel tangled around him.

“You’re staring,” Crowley said, sounding far, far too smug.

Aziraphale helplessly and emphatically waved at him, up and down. “Yes! Obviously!”

The angel _laughed_, terrible, wonderful bastard that he was. He crooked a finger, beckoning, and Aziraphale was across the floor, pouncing on him in a heartbeat, sliding his hands up those lovely lean thighs and under the shirt to his narrow hips.

“I adore you,” he purred into the angel’s mouth. “How is it possible you become more remarkable every day?”

Crowley tugged at his hair fondly. “Could be you’re easy pleased.”

Aziraphale huffed and hoisted the angel up in his arms, wrapping those lovely long legs around his waist. “Well… technically… yes…” He tottered towards the stairs and really, it was remarkably difficult to pick one’s way up with an angel licking at your mouth. “Darling, _please_…”

Crowley beamed at him and bit Aziraphale’s lower lip. “What about breakfast?”

His damned eyes were actually _twinkling_.

“I’m very sorry, darling,” Aziraphale said solemnly, bracing his arm against the wall to steady them as he ascended. “There’s something else my mouth needs to attend to first.”

Crowley went pink from head to toe. “You don’t _have_ to,” he said, wriggling in anticipation, as Aziraphale crested the stairs.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed and loosened his arms, dropping the angel back on the bed where he bounced down on his back. “But this?” Aziraphale braced one knee against the edge of the mattress, leaning down over him, “Consider this an indulgence.”

Honey eyes shone. “Divine or infernal?” he teased, his knee brushing against Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale twisted open the buttons of the angel’s shirt. “Ask me again in fifteen minutes,” he said and lowered his head. “If,” he murmured against Crowley’s throat, “you can.”

Crowley laughed, tugging at his hair again. “Challenge accepted.”

Aziraphale nuzzled at his throat. “I hoped you’d say that, darling,” he purred. “Now, let me take care of you.”

Two hours later, a delivery van popped in and delivered brunch to a very dishevelled and extremely happy red-haired human-shaped creature in an outsized white shirt and bowtie and mismatched toe-socks.

Crowley ran back up the stairs, bag in hand, and grinned down at Aziraphale, who was very proud of himself when he managed to feebly twitch his hand.

“You _did_ challenge me,” the angel said, sitting down cross-legged on the bed beside him and riffling through the contents of the bag.

“Cheat,” Aziraphale groaned, slithering up the bed a little way to sit against the headboard. “Satan’s sake, angel… after last night as well. I’m going to be walking funny for days to come.”

Crowley gave him a wide-eyed look over his pot of yoghurt. “Oops.”

The demon couldn’t help grinning. “I didn’t say that was bad.” He patted the space beside him. “Now, since you have utterly ruined me for all other beings and left me famished and exhausted, you may need to feed me.”

Crowley scrambled over happily. “Go on, then,” he said happily, and shoved a spoonful of yoghurt in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Gnugh!” Aziraphale flailed a weak hand. “Crumpets, damn it! Not your fruit mush!” He paused. “Wait… is that peach?”

“Mm.” Crowley offered another spoonful. “Your favourite.”

And not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if it was possible for his heart to expand and burst out of his chest with happiness. It certainly felt that way.


	80. 2020 - November - Recall

For the first time in a number of days, it had not rained. Instead, crisp sunshine spread across the city and – for once – Aziraphale choose to enjoy a lazy meander on foot back in the direction of the community centre.

The fact it allowed him to collect some little delicacies from some of his favourite restaurants was neither here nor there, and he licked some sticky syrup from his fingers, humming as he crunched up the gravel path towards the chapter house. There were certainly enough sweet treats left over to tempt his spouse and even a couple of bao, still miraculously steaming in their box.

To his surprise, he noticed the lights in the chapter house were out, though there was a flickering glow that made his heart stutter for a moment.

“Dearest?” he called as he neared, pushing the door open cautiously with his fingertips.

“I’m here,” Crowley replied, looking up with a small smile. He was kneeling between the couch and the coffee table. Inexplicably, he had an alabaster oil lamp burning beside him, the glow softening the lines around his eyes and mouth.

Aziraphale glanced about suspiciously. “Is something wrong with the power?”

“No.” Crowley waved him closer. “I’ve got… I want to show you some things.”

As he neared, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the chest beside Crowley. Still closed, he observed, but certainly not in its usual hiding place beneath the window. His heart gave a peculiar jump.

“Your treasures?”

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale shed his coat and his burden, circling around the table to settle on a cushion at Crowley’s side. “Not that I want to ruin the moment, cherub,” he murmured, tucking a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear, “but why now? Why today?”

The angel gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s an anniversary.” He had a folded white cloth laid on the table and knelt up to open it out. It came as no surprise at all to the demon that it contained yet another textile sample around the size of a pillow case. To Aziraphale’s eyes, it was simple, worn and faded, though he could spot that pattern of stars picked out in thread.

“From a friend of yours?” he murmured, gazing at Crowley’s profile. The angel’s honey eyes were lingering on the fabric.

“Mm.”

“Anyone I might have known?”

“Mm.” His lips turned up and his honey eyes met Aziraphale’s. “The first human you ever met.”

Aziraphale gaped at him, then at the cloth. Lord, if it was so old, then it certainly explained the softer light of the alabaster lamp. “No.”

“Mm.” Crowley delicately traced the fabric without touching it. “We learned to spin and weave together. Well, she did. I was rubbish at it.” He laughed quietly. “She told me I was the best at making knots.”

Aziraphale searched the angel’s face. “You said you spent a little time with them,” he remembered.

Crowley smiled. “Might have understated it a little bit.” He drew back his hand from the cloth. “Didn’t just give them the book. It’d’ve been useless. Taught them to read it. Taught them to understand it. Taught them–”

“Everything they needed to know,” Aziraphale finished, staring at him. Lord, no wonder Heaven had come down on him like a ton of bricks. Crowley nodded. “And you helped them, didn’t you? You kept helping them?”

“Until Heaven learned about the book,” Crowley murmured. “Had to back off a bit after that, but this…” He ran his fingertips along the edge of the table and the cloth. “Y’know she made this for the book? Eve? To wrap it up and protect it from damage. She was _so_ proud of it.”

“You’re lucky Heaven never bothered with…” He didn’t need to finish. “They did?”

“Along with the book.” There was a distant look in the angel’s eyes. “Hacked and burned and gone. I… asked them not to. Not the cover. But they did it anyway. I tried to save some of it, but it…” He gave Aziraphale a brittle smile. “Well, you know that part of the story, don’t you? And obviously…” He waved a hand. “Came back, along with the book.”

That, Aziraphale knew at once, wasn’t meant for the humans. The book was the important thing to the humans, but to the angel who had crafted the book, the cover – made with love – was so much more important and _She_ had chosen to return that too.

Aziraphale moved a little closer, resting his hand lightly at the base of Crowley’s back. “I’m glad you have it,” he said. “It’s clearly precious to you.”

Crowley tilted into him. “Yeah.” He gently closed the soft linen around the cloth. “She made it for me. For the book, but for me too.” A delicate miracle sealed the linen closed, keeping out any dust or damage. “I think she’d be glad to know I still have it, even though the book faded to dust centuries ago.”

“I expect so.” Aziraphale kissed his ear gently. “After all, I was rather thrilled to find you kept my little rag.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Then you’re going to love this.” He opened the chest, replacing the bundle of Eve’s cloth back inside and withdrew another bundle. It was smaller and more compact, but the moment he opened it up, Aziraphale knew at once where he’d got it.

“My gloves! I wondered where I’d left them!”

“Left?” Crowley laughed, picking them up and pulling them on, wiggling his fingers. “You _gave_ them to me!”

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m quite sure I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head.

The angel grinned at him, eyes dancing. “Istanbul? Crimean war?”

Aziraphale blinked once or twice. “Oh!” He laughed. “Oh, yes, of course! You were wrangling the shrew, weren’t you? And then we went to that hammam and we had that _delicious_ Turkish delight.”

“_You_ had,” Crowley countered. “Which is why you gave me the gloves. You ate all mine and said to keep them as compensation.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “That sounds… uncommonly generous of me.”

“Eh.” Crowley poked his nose. “About average based on my experience of you.”

The demon chuckled, nuzzling his fingertip. “Well, you _are_ my exception, my rose sherbet.”

“Thematic,” Crowley said, chuckling. “I like it.” He slipped the gloves off and laid them down. “I… they were useful. In the years after that. The winters.” He offered Aziraphale a cautious smile. “I mean, I know we weren’t talking, but it felt like a little bit of you was still with me.”

That… void of time was always one they skirted around so cautiously, but it felt like a little of the ice around it had thawed knowing Crowley had still thought well of him, simply thought of him, even then.

He scooped up Crowley’s hand and pressed his lips to the angel’s wedding band. “You shan’t need to worry about cold hands ever again. I shall always keep you warm, like a pair of mittens.”

“You’re being ridiculous now,” Crowley said softly, but the brittleness in his voice said he understood and appreciated it.

Aziraphale nuzzled his fingertips. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t suggest a muff.”

Crowley snorted, pulling his hand free to swat him. “You’re _terrible_.”

“I’m just saying,” Aziraphale said, widening his eyes with all innocence. “If you need somewhere warm to put your hands…”

“Because that wouldn’t raise eyebrows when we’re walking down the street,” Crowley said, grinning at him.

“Well, it would raise… something.”

Another swat landed across the back of his head and Aziraphale beamed proudly.

“Still,” he continued, “I can’t recall ever seeing you wear them, even in winter.”

The angel made a face. “Because I wasn’t about to let you nick them back, was I? I liked having toasty hands.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest. “But… cantaloupe! We’re married now! All that I have is yours and vice versa!”

“So what you’re saying,” Crowley said thoughtfully, “is that legally, they’re mine now, anyway, so I can keep them? Thanks!” He bundled them back up, sprawling out of Aziraphale’s grip to tuck them back into the chest.

“You,” Aziraphale said, happily hauling the angel back towards him, “are a hellion.”

Crowley flopped into his arms, smiling. “I try.” He kissed the end of Aziraphale’s nose. “D’you want to see more?”

“Of your secrets?” Aziraphale batted his lashes. “Eternally.”

Crowley wriggled free from his grip and scooted back along the floor to carefully poke through the contents of the chest. A few items were carefully moved to one side, small, frail little bundles, then the angel crawled back towards him and presented a small wooden box.

Aziraphale took it carefully. The box alone looked centuries old, barely the width of his palm and as long from the heel of his hand to his fingertips. Not much to look at, very basic and simple. Nothing special, but the closer he looked, the more his brow furrowed and he tentatively reached out with more than simply the mortal senses.

He pressed the box back into the angel’s hands at once, staring at it. “How…?”

Crowley turned the box gently between his fingers. “He might’ve had a big destiny waiting for him, but his dad wanted to make sure he had a profession.” A small, frail smile crept across his lips. “I wasn’t… technically meant to interact with him, but I saw him working so hard on it and when he displayed it in the shop and insisted he would sell it…”

“You bought it,” Aziraphale stared at him. “Of course you bloody did.”

“You’d think all of his Christmases had come at once.”

“Well, technically,” Aziraphale pointed out with a smile, “that _would_ have been his birthday.”

That made Crowley’s face light up. “Ha! Yes.” He carefully opened the box and lifted out a small curl of cloth from inside it. There was something small wrapped up in it, which shimmered when the light hit it. “I kept this too.”

Aziraphale leaned closer, peering at it. “Wait a minute…” He raised his eyes to the angel. “That looks a bit like your hairpiece. The one in China, wasn’t it?”

“It _is_ my hairpiece from China,” Crowley replied, tilting it to the light.

Aziraphale reached out to trace the shimmering gold. “Was it always a snake?”

Honey eyes met his. “Always.”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale’s heart gave a traitorous tremor and he clutched his hand to it.

“Darling,” he said carefully, “if you would be so kind as to put down any delicates and get yourself into my arms at once.”

Crowley laughed, putting both box and hairpiece aside so he could curl up into Aziraphale’s embrace, nuzzling his cheek. “Enough for tonight?

“Mm.” Aziraphale cupped the back of his head, kissing his cheek and ear softly. “For tonight.” His other arm slipped around the angel’s skinny waist, pulling him that little bit closer. “I prefer the real thing to trinkets.”

“Soft,” Crowley said happily and bit his ear.

And, not for the first time, Aziraphale was astonished that he didn’t simply discorporate with happiness.


	81. 2020 - November - Crush

The rain was drumming softly on the roof above them when Aziraphale laid down his book.

“What did you think?”

Crowley smiled against his hair. “I think I could listen to any book if you were the one reading them,” he murmured. He was seated against the ornate headboard, padded with a stack of pillows, and Aziraphale was tucked snugly between his legs, his back against the angel’s chest. He patted Aziraphale’s chest. “I’m a little sad I can’t enjoy reading as much as you.”

Aziraphale lifted a hand to squeeze his. “Understandably, though,” the demon murmured drowsily. “I imagine your poor little head is quite saturated with knowledge. Concentrating enough to take more in would be quite a challenge.”

Crowley chuckled. “I don’t know whether to feel complimented or offended,” he said, plucking the book from Aziraphale’s hand and setting it aside on the bedside table.

“A compliment, cherub,” Aziraphale yawned. “Always a compliment.”

Somewhere far beyond the chapter house, thunder grumbled in the night.

Inside, it was warm and the soft light of the lamps made Aziraphale’s fair hair shine. Crowley rubbed his cheek against the tousled curls, humming happily. These were the kinds of night he always liked best, when they could be themselves, together and completely comfortable.

“Are you sleepy?” he asked quietly some time later, his hand tucked snugly against Aziraphale’s chest beneath his pyjamas.

Aziraphale patted his hand through the cloth. “I’d rather like to stay like this, if I may,” he replied. “If you’re comfortable enough?”

“I’d let you know if I wasn’t,” Crowley said and dropped a kiss by his ear. He sighed contentedly, setting his head back against the pillows behind his back. “I like listening to the rain.”

“Hm?”

“Mm.” He smiled towards the ceiling. “Do you remember that first day–”

“And my umbrella?” Aziraphale chuckled. “How could I forget?” His fingers stroked along Crowley’s hand gently. “You were so… kind to me, darling. Even from the first. Protecting me like that.”

Crowley gave him a squeeze. “Hardly protecting. Just a bit of shelter from the rain.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale tilted his head in that unnatural, snakey way he did. One knowing blue eye watched Crowley. “I remember you running,” he murmured. “I remember you shouting to me not to move as the water fell. You _were_ protecting me.”

Crowley nuzzled his cheek self-consciously. “Shush,” he mumbled.

Technically, yes, all right, he was _right_, but he didn’t need to act like it. Crowley had expected wrath to come crashing down and when he smelled the rain in the air, water from the heavens, he had feared that the fire of wrath had been replaced with the water of holy vengeance.

And he had sprinted across a clearing, screaming like a maniac, and tried to save a demon from complete extinction. And all for nothing as it turned out.

It turned out to just be rain. Boring, every day rain.

“My sweet angel.” Aziraphale settled back against his chest again, patting his hand. “I appreciate the thought.”

They were quiet for a long time, just lying there, listening to the rain. The wind was up and drops were rattling against the windows down below. Occasionally, there was the creak and thump of the door knocker against the door.

“Stupid thing,” Aziraphale murmured, waving a hand. The thumping fell silent. “Should have had it remade in iron. Something heavier than brass anyway.”

“I like the brass,” Crowley said, drawing lazy circles on the demon’s chest. “The colour matches the door.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale yawned again. He was growing heavier against Crowley’s body, which certainly said he was drifting closer to sleep. “Skilled fellow, the one who made it. Liked brass, so brass it was.”

“Oh?” Crowley rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s hair. “Who made it for you?”

“Hm?” Another yawn, drowsier still. “Oh, a man in Cairo.” He smiled sleepily. “Only as a novelty ornament, mind you. Had it turned into a knocker when they became fashionable over here.”

Crowley frowned, puzzled. “Two hundred years back?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale patted his hand again. “I was rather cross with you. Dug it out. Was going to put it on the shop door, y’see.”

That didn’t make any sense. “But you didn’t know I was Raziel, then,” he said. “Why did you have it when you didn’t know I was Raziel?”

Abruptly, Aziraphale went very still and tense under his arms, suddenly awake. “Oh. Ah.” He cleared his throat. “No reason.”

Crowley swatted his chest. “Aziraphale.”

The demon fidgeted.

“Why would you put it on your shop door when we weren’t– when we hadn’t been speaking?”

“Because I knew you’d hate it.”

He was lying and he was squirming with it, his ear turning hot and pink by Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley splayed his hand, pressing it flat over Aziraphale’s heart. “Why,” he murmured in the demon’s ear, “did you have a scroll wound up in a serpent? Please don’t lie to me.”

Aziraphale’s hands clenched convulsively in his lap. “It– it’s embarrassing!” he blurted out.

“And? You’ve seen me at my worst. What can be worse than some of the stuff I’ve–”

“IfanciedRaziel.”

Crowley blinked stupidly. “You what?”

Aziraphale’s face was scarlet. “I– darling, you know I’m weak for a rascal!” He shifted, twisting his hands together. “Look I– the Arrangement was… it was kind of a thing, but he was… well… he was this kind of personal white whale, a mysterious rogue, causing chaos for Heaven and Hell alike! And then the book surfaced again in Germany and I– well, safer to have a fantasy at a distance, eh? Instead of scaring you, I thought I could– well, it wasn’t as… I didn’t…” He groaned.

Crowley had to press his lips together to stifle his laughter. “Mm.”

“Oh, don’t you ‘mm’ at me!” Aziraphale huffed. “I couldn’t have you, could I? So I thought I could focus my angelic interests elsewhere!”

The laughter bubbled out. “Good job,” Crowley gasped out between laughs. “Well done. Great choice. Top class observational skills.”

Aziraphale sat up. “It’s not all that funny!” he said, folding his arms indignantly.

“Is a bit,” Crowley said, scooting forward to nuzzle at his shoulder. “You try and stop fancying one angel by making yourself fancy another one. And now, you’re married to both of them.”

Aziraphale gave a reluctant snort of amusement. “I suppose…”

“But that doesn’t explain why you were going to put it on the shop door when we…” Crowley stared at the suddenly-flaming ear in front of him. “Were you trying to make me _jealous_?”

The demon made a sound awfully like a whimper and shoved his face in his hands.

“You were!” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. “Oh you bloody great idiot.”

“Shut up!” Aziraphale moaned into his hands. “Shut _up_!”

“Never!” Crowley crawled around him and pulled his hands away from his face. “You are such a useless big romantic lump!” Aziraphale gave him such hopelessly plaintive look that he took pity and leaned in and kissed him. “You loved me twice over. What’s wrong with that?”

Aziraphale looked down at their hands, turning his to take both of Crowley’s. “Well, I… I didn’t _love_ Raziel, per se.” He lifted his eyes to meet Crowley. “But I thought ‘ah. There’s an angel who might not be adverse to an indulgence or two’.”

Crowley threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “So what you’re telling me,” he said, trying very hard to keep a straight face, “is that you added a faceless and hypothetically naughty angel you had never knowingly met to your spank bank?”

“Eugh!” Aziraphale looked horrified. “What a _dreadful_ term!”

Crowley leaned closer, grinning at him. “Accurate though. Did you?”

Aziraphale pouted. “If you’re going to laugh at me,” he said huffily. “I’m going to sleep.”

Crowley pulled on his hands. “Oh, come on,” he laughed. “What harm can it do, telling me now? It’s not like I haven’t… you know… done stuff with you already.” He tugged again, tilting his head and widening his eyes. It was a bloody useful expression. Worked on convincing stubborn demons 100% of the time. “Come on. Tell me? You know I like to know what my husband likes.”

Aziraphale turned over their hands, back and forth, then sighed. “How often do you intend to weaponise that against me?”

Crowley shuffled closer on his knees, close enough to crawl into Aziraphale’s lap. “Oh, for eternity,” he said, releasing Aziraphale’s hands to wrap his arms around the demon instead. “And you’ll still be enjoying it when the world falls into the sun.”

Give him his due, Aziraphale _did_ try very hard to look annoyed, but all at once his arms were around Crowley and he sighed noisily into the angel’s hair. “You’re a wretched little bastard, my darling.”

“Course I am,” Crowley said, grinning. “I’m a hypothetically naughty angel, me.”

Aziraphale tweaked at his ribs, making him squirm and yelp. “Well, you can’t say I was wrong, can you?” He rolled them suddenly, tumbling Crowley onto his back among the pillows and covers and pinned him there with the weight of his body. He gazed down at him. “I used to wonder what he – they – were like.”

“Yeah?” Crowley stroked his hand the length of Aziraphale’s back.

“Mm.” The demon lowered his head and nuzzled the tip of Crowley’s nose. “Clever, of course. Cunning, naturally. Strong, too. And yet, inevitably, no matter how it began, they always had red hair in the end.” He propped himself on his forearms over Crowley, smiling down at him. “As interesting as that bastard was, I’m afraid I was… rather taken with someone else who was, most assuredly, a part of my…” His lips pursed with distaste as he said it, “spank bank.”

Crowley leaned up to kiss him fondly. “I feel better now,” he said impishly. “Knowing I didn’t have any real competition from… well… myself.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “You’re insufferable, darling.”

“Yep,” Crowley said happily, giving him a squeeze. “Your insufferable spouse.” He leaned up a little way, sliding his cheek along Aziraphale. “But if you’re _really_ good, I can recite Raziel’s best work for you. Got it memorised.” He nipped Aziraphale’s earlobe, then breathed in a language ancient and almost forgotten, from the very beginning of the world, “And so it was written, and so it shall be.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale shivered in his arms and he drew back to search his face.

“It didn’t hurt you, did it?” he asked, worried.

Aziraphale shook his head, his eyes bright and wet. “I never thought I would hear it again,” he said, so softly it might have been a prayer cast up in a cathedral. “We were– It was forbidden.”

Crowley’s heart broke all over again for him and he slid a hand up to sink into the demon’s hair, drawing him down. “I love you,” he breathed against his lips in that, their first and eldest tongue. “You are mine and I am yours.” There was no word for what they were to each other, but he found some all the same. “My most cherished.”

Aziraphale’s smile was a brittle and beautiful thing. “Say my name?” he asked in a whisper.

And as the thunder rolled and the storm grew stronger outside, in the warmth of their home, an angel held a demon and called him by his name.


	82. 2020 - December - Old Times

Crowley felt the shift before Aziraphale noticed it, but only by a few seconds. They’d been enjoying a lazy afternoon on the couch, the weather dull and cold outside, but as soon as Aziraphale picked up on the new presence, he sat up, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Aziraphale.”

His husband looked at him, eyes solid blue. “They have no right to come here.”

Crowley nodded. “I was kind of expecting it, to be honest.” He patted Aziraphale’s legs, waiting for him to move them, then got up. “Probably should get it over with.”

“I’ll drive them off,” Aziraphale said, his expression dark. “They don’t get to interfere with us anymore.”

A hand on his arm calmed him enough to look at Crowley.

“I think I know why they’ve come,” he said gently. “We should at least be hospitable.”

The demon grumbled, hunching his shoulders. “I hardly see why. After all, they _did_ try to kill me.”

Crowley leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Exactly. We’re better than that.”

Aziraphale huffed, but the smallest of smiles was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, my dearest creampuff, _you_ are better than that. I’m simply riding on your coat tails and taking all the credit.”

Crowley grinned. “It’s a start.” He threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “Come on. And whatever happens, go along with me.”

His husband trailed after him, complaining all the while, as they walked out into the garden and towards the gates. A single figure was standing, barely inside the threshold. They had crossed it. The disturbed gravel around their feet showed exactly where they had emerged.

“Afternoon,” Crowley said, raising a hand in greeting. “Been a while, Beelzebub.”

The Prince of Hell stared at them, lips curling back from their teeth. “You don’t seem surprizzzed.”

Crowley shrugged. “We had Michael around a few weeks ago. I thought someone from your side would come calling.” He hesitated, then confessed, “I wondered if it would be you.” He offered a cautious smile. “Kind of hoped it would be.”

Aziraphale made a sharp, puzzled sound.

Beelzebub prowled closer. They were holding something in their bony hands and never once took their eyes off Crowley. “Storiezzz spread, _angel_,” they spat. “Nonsense about paxes and… friendshipzzz.”

“Not nonsense,” Crowley retorted, though his heart twisted when he saw what the demon was holding. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Beelzebub’s hands tightened convulsively around the bottle. “We’re not completely stupid.” They unscrewed the cap, though their hands were white and shaking. No wonder, carrying around a bottle of Holy Water. Their eyes darted to Aziraphale. “A tezzzzt, angel.”

“It’s all right,” Crowley murmured, watching Beelzebub. “Go ahead.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I don’t think–”

Crowley squeezed his hand in wordless reassurance. Aziraphale squeezed his fingers damn near to breaking point, then stepped closer, alongside him. “You want to know. Do it.”

The Prince of Hell stared at him warily, then hurled the contents of the bottle in Aziraphale’s direction. Holy Water hung like mist in the air then evaporated before it could even touch him, burned away by the neutrality clause as much as Hellfire burned out.

Aziraphale made a small, shaky sound and Crowley turned, gathering him close.

“I’d never let anything happen to you,” he murmured in the demon’s ear. “You know that and they know we’re… immune.”

Aziraphale squeezed him tightly. “I… yes. Still…”

“I know.” Crowley kissed his cheek gently. “Thank you for trusting me.” He stepped back, searching Aziraphale’s face. “Will you be all right in the chapter house on your own?”

“A damned sight better than out here,” Aziraphale agreed with a brittle laugh. He shot a guarded look at Beelzebub, then peeled away and hurried back in the direction of their home.

Crowley turned back to their intruder.

“The rumour of neutrality izzz true, then.”

“Did you doubt it?”

Beelzebub sniffed, tossing aside the empty canister. “One learnzzz to be cautious.” Their fishbelly-pale eyes studied him thoughtfully. “You haven’t changed that much. I’m amazed we didn’t realizzze sooner.”

Crowley shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “People don’t pay attention to the quiet ones. All anyone remembered about me was the stylus and the tablet.”

Beelzebub’s lips thinned. “I’m amazed _I_ didn’t realise sooner. Quiet angel in London? Getting on with the dirty work? Unacknowledged? Unpraised? Who else would it be?” They hissed in irritation. “I didn’t think.”

That made Crowley smile. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I hit you with the tablet when I was doing the first draft. Let’s call it brain damage.” He frowned thoughtfully. “When _did_ you figure out who I was?”

The twitch of irritation that crossed Beelzebub’s face was the answer. “When I saw you at the airfield,” they said. “I _should_ have realised.”

“Ah. Bit of a nasty shock, eh? Especially when I know you had Aziraphale hunting for me for centuries.”

The demon watched him. “You were diminished.” They waved a bony hand. “You… you were one of Her Archangels. We sought an Archangel in the world when they said you had fled after your… mizzzzzdemeanour. When we couldn’t–”

“I was demoted,” Crowley explained. “I get the feeling Heaven weren’t keen to let anyone know I still had my halo.” He tilted his head, studying them. “What are you here for, Beelzebub? This isn’t just a chat about old times, is it?”

For a split-second, the Prince of Hell’s expression wavered, almost childlike in its uncertainty. Then it hardened again, the mask plastered over the angel Crowley had once known, all those bloody and brutal years ago.

“You’ve changed thingzzz. I want to know how.”

“Ah.” Crowley wandered over to the bench, gravel crunching underfoot. He sat, then waited, pointedly looking at them, then the space on the bench beside him. Beelzebub’s face was inscrutable, then they stalked over and sat too, heels digging into the gravel. “It’s not what I did.”

Beelzebub bared their teeth. “This is no time for riddles,” they snapped. “Thingzzzz have changed and you’re the common denominator.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, “but it’s not a riddle. I was just myself.” He leaned back against the back of the bench, looking up at the cloud-scudded sky. “Do you remember when She first made the firmament? Taking the atoms and just… nudging so gently?”

“Mm.” Beelzebub’s feet raked back and forth in the gravel.

“It didn’t look like much,” Crowley murmured, “but it changed everything. Showed us all a glimpse of possibility.” He looked at them. “It’s like that daft proverb about the flutter of a butterfly’s wing causing a monsoon on the other side of the world.”

Beelzebub was watching him, careful and guarded. “You’re the butterfly?”

He shrugged. “It seems like it. All I did was talk to them. Listen to them. Treat them…” He smiled sadly at the demon. “Treat them as equals. Not as enemies. Not as Fallen. Just as… people, I s’pose.”

They shook their head. “It _can’t_ be that simple.”

“I know.” Crowley sat silent for a moment, then nudged them. “D’you want a coffee?”

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Old times’ sake?” he suggested. “Scribe to Watcher?”

The demon nodded curtly. “One coffee.”

Crowley smiled. “That’s all I’m asking.” He got up. “Back in a tick.”

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the chapter house, Aziraphale all but pounced on him.

“What do they want?”

Crowley gently pushed him back. “Same as Michael. Questions.”

“But you _know_ them?”

“A long time ago,” Crowley confirmed. “Earliest of days. I knew a lot of people in Her presence. Before… well… everything.”

Aziraphale growled under his breath. “If we get a queue of demons seeking salvation around the door, I will not be best pleased.”

Crowley laughed. “I don’t think that’s what Beelzebub is looking for,” he said as he poured two mugs of coffee. “They were always one of the better intelligence operatives in the Heavenly days. Must be rare for them to get out and do it themselves these days.”

Aziraphale approached the window, peering out. “Hm. Or everyone else is too afraid to come near you?”

“Oh shush.”

“It could well be true,” Aziraphale said defensively. “It’s… you’ve done the impossible.”

“It’s not like I’m vomiting redemption on everyone,” Crowley grumbled good naturedly, wedging the biscuit tin under his arm before picking up the mugs. “Can you get the door for me?”

Beelzebub was sitting where he’d left them, staring moodily at a curling frond of fern across the path. “You grow things,” they said, not looking up. “This is all your work. I recognise the fingerprints all over it.”

“Call it a hobby,” Crowley replied, sitting down and offering the mug.

Beelzebub took it, but didn’t drink at once. “I don’t…. understand you, Raziel.”

The name had been a blade for so long, but now, it was nothing more than a memory. “Crowley,” he corrected, opening the biscuit tin and setting it down between them. “I prefer to be who I am, instead of being limited by that name.”

“You didn’t Fall,” Beelzebub said quietly, hands closed around the mug. “Why?”

Crowley sipped his coffee. “Don’t know,” he admitted. He blew some of the steam away. “Hate to say it, but I think ineffable might be the right term.”

“Ugh.” Beelzebub made a face.

He grinned at them. “I know.” He picked up a hobnob and studied it. “What happens to Hastur now?”

“Why do you care?” Beelzebub snorted.

“Because,” Crowley replied evenly, “I do. He’s a friend.”

The demon stared at him. “You mean it too, don’t you?”

Crowley nodded. “I don’t see any reason why people need to be ostracised just because someone tells me they should be.”

“And you didn’t Fall…” Beelzebub shook their head in disbelief.

“Ah!” Crowley held up a finger. “There’s the thing, though. _She_ never told us to keep treating you that way after you all Fell. She told us you were Fallen and disgraced. That’s it. Didn’t say anything about not being civil.”

Beelzebub made a face. “Semanticzzz.”

“You’d be amazed how useful they are,” Crowley replied with a grin. “Anyway, Gabriel was the one telling me to stab everyone who wasn’t us and I wasn’t about to listen to him, was I? His head’s so far up his own bum, he’s practically nuzzling his tonsils.”

Beelzebub made a strange, bubbling sound and it took him a minute to realise…

“You’re laughing!”

Beelzebub tried to scowl at him. “No I’m not!”

“You are!” He twisted on the seat to watch them intently. “I could insult Gabriel some more, if you want.”

Beelzebub glared at him, then took a sip of coffee. “Go on.”

It wasn’t hard to come up with a beautiful selection of insults, from the turtleneck pullovers he favoured to the eyes he’d stolen from an actress he liked because there was nothing as vain as an Archangel. Oh and that time he’d almost widdled himself when the book was returned to the humans.

A slow grin spread across Beelzebub’s face. “You’re really not much of an angel anymore, are you?” they said.

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m a me.”

“You’d be welcome below…”

Ah, there it was.

“So that’s why you came?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, amused. “Aziraphale said you were looking to recruit the rogue angel, centuries ago.”

Beelzebub shrugged. “No harm in asking, izzz there?” They met Crowley’s eyes. “We worked well together before. You’d be respected. People know what you’re capable of, above and below.”

“And whoever got me on side will lord it over the other,” Crowley pointed out. “Look, look! We have the one with the power to connect you back to the Almighty! Suck it, losers!” He shook his head. “No thanks. Hell and Heaven both tried to execute us already. I’m not partial to joining up with either side.” He nudged the biscuit tin towards Beelzebub. “I’m happy being Switzerland. Neutral and full of chocolate.”

The demon took one of the biscuits, turning it between their fingers. “And if war was to happen? If your precious earth was threatened again?”

“It’s a funny thing,” Crowley said, munching on his hobnob, “Switzerland might be neutral, but they’re not helpless. They’re active peacekeepers and _will_ take up arms when necessary.” He smiled warmly. “I protect what’s mine, Beelzebub. This world is _mine_.”

“You _have_ changed,” Beelzbub observed, taking a bite of their biscuit. “You were…” They frowned, humming in thought. “Peaceful.”

“Haven’t changed that much,” he argued, dipping his biscuit in his coffee. “Still am. Just peaceful with teeth when someone disturbs me.”

The demon nodded, gulping down the dregs of their coffee, then getting to their feet. They set the mug down. “If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

Beelzbub chuckled. “Well, that hazzn’t changed, hazz it? Still stubborn as a goat.”

“Yup,” Crowley said cheerfully, sprawling back comfortably on the bench. “You know where to find me if you want another bitching session about Gabriel, though. I have six millennia of fodder for that.”

Those pale eyes studied him. “You would welcome me if I came again, wouldn’t you?”

“You and anyone else who comes here,” Crowley said, smiling. “Like I said, Switzerland.”

“Mm.” They grunted. “Peaceful and cheesy.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “Did you make a _joke_?”

“Nothing you can prove,” the demon said. They nodded. “It was good to see you… Crowley.”

Crowley smiled. “You too.”


	83. 2020 - December - Fight

Winter had turned the world into monochrome. Curling clouds washed the sky with grey, frost and snow glittering on buildings and streets. Beautiful in its own way, but definitely not ideal.

Crowley ruefully surveyed the garden, even the evergreen hedges laden down and hidden under small white drifts. He gave one of them a cautious prod with his shovel, sending a miniature avalanche cascading onto the ground below.

“Don’t tell me you plan to uncover every leaf by hand,” Aziraphale murmured lazily from the door of the chapter house.

Crowley made a face over his shoulder. “Just checking what the damage is.” He crouched down by one of the bed, not even glancing over his shoulder as his husband’s footsteps crunched closer. “At least I got some of the sheeting down, but God only knows if it’ll make a difference.”

“It does look rather heavy,” Aziraphale agreed. He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Come back inside, dearheart. It’s bloody cold.”

Crowley tilted his head to look up at him. “Awww. Is the widdle demon cold?”

Blue eyes glinted a split second before a handful of icy snow dropped down the back of his neck.

“Aziraphale!”

“Awww,” the demon sing-songed. “Is the widdle angel cold?”

Handy thing about being closer to the ground was it meant Crowley could quickly ball up a handful of snow and whip around, tossing it straight into Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale yelped and huffed, shaking himself like an offended cat.

“Darling!”

“You started it!” Crowley retorted, scrambling up and bolting towards the miniature tool shed with its lovely flat roof and its equally nice inch-thick layer of smooth snow. He was halfway there was another ball exploded on the back of his head, making him stagger. “Oi! No head shots!”

“You started it!” Aziraphale laughed in delight.

Crowley dived behind the shed, laughing, the greenhouse at his back. There wasn’t _that_ much snow, but there was enough for a quick miracle to turn the flatness of the shed roof into two dozen perfect hand-sized snowballs.

“Cheat!”

“Angel!” Crowley retorted, lobbing one after another, blooms of white erupting on the demon’s clothing. “Using my knowledge of nature! Specialist skills!”

“Oho!” Aziraphale raised his arm to shield his face. “That’s how it is, is it?” He snapped his other hand upwards.

The rattle from above made Crowley turn in time to see every pane of the garden shed dislodge its covering of snow at once. The mantle slid rapidly down over the edge of the greenhouse and dropping in a thick white curtain.

“Gyah!” he managed, before he was engulfed.

He was plucked out barely seconds later.

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale scooped him up as if he might have frozen to death already. “I didn’t realise quite how much there was of it!”

In fact, there was so much, he still had a heap of it in his lap, so he did the only thing any sensible angel could do and blinked innocently – best wide-eyed, wounded-puppy look activated – and when Aziraphale’s expression went all soft and dopey and recalcitrant, Crowley yanked his shirt open and shoved a handful of snow inside.

“Fuck me!” Aziraphale howled, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

Crowley landed, still laughing, in the mound of snow. “Serves you right,” he said, tossing up puffs of snow at him.

“Fiend!” Aziraphale growled, leaping at him.

There wasn’t much room between the shed and the greenhouse and both of them knocked their elbows and knees as they scrabbled for purchase and to pin the other, snow rapidly turning from crisp and fluffy to soggy and slushy and both of them soaked to the bone.

“Ha!”

Crowley sat up, victorious, hands on his hips. “I have smote the serpent.”

Aziraphale pouted at him, holding up his wet hands, poking from the soggy, muddy- and slush-soaked sleeves. “This was clean on this morning, darling,” he said reproachfully. “I was rather looking forward to wearing it.”

“Remind me,” Crowley said, leaning over him with a grin, “which of us put snow down the other’s shirt first? Hm?”

Aziraphale huffed and made a game effort of folding his arms and looking away in a sulk, but it wasn’t exactly convincing since he didn’t even try to tip Crowley off him. “Times like this, I wish the bookshop was closer,” he grumbled. “There’s a quite lovely bath in the little flat upstairs. Clawed feet. High ends. Big enough for two. The best thing to get warmed up in.”

Crowley chuckled. “Fuss, fuss, fuss,” he said, smiling as he got to his feet. He held down his hand. “Come with me.”

Aziraphale caught his hand and hauled himself up. “Why? Planning to roll me in every flowerbed?”

“You do that,” Crowley said sternly, “and I _will_ kick your bum out of the chapter house.”

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers at once. “I would never dream of it, cherub. Your wrath is one thing that I have never been tempted to court.”

The angel shot a grin back at him. “Because you know I’d _know_ how to wreck you.” He headed towards the back door of the church hall, unlocking it with a flick of his fingers.

The hall was empty for a change and there was nothing scheduled until the next day, which meant that there was no one there to wonder how on earth a claw-footed Victorian bath tub had miraculously appeared where the high altar once stood. Or how it was filled with hot water and bubbles despite the distinct lack of plumbing.

“Something like that?” Crowley said, unable to resist peeking at Aziraphale as the demon sputtered in helpless delight, his face a picture.

“Oh, my beloved mushroom!” Aziraphale whirled him off his feet. “You give me the best surprises.”

“And you call me mushroom for it?” Crowley laughed, swatting at him.

“Soft, fascinating texture, and I love the feel of them on my tongue?” Blue eyes batted at him.

“Ugh!” Crowley pushed his palm in the demon’s face, trying his best not to grin. “You say _I’m _soft and you come out with guff like that?”

The demon beamed at him. “For all eternity.” He tugged Crowley over towards the bath. “Oh! Wait!” A fingersnap produced a mountain of fluffy towels. “Forward planning,” he confided, wiggling his eyebrows. “In case we get distracted.”

“You,” Crowley corrected, grinning as Aziraphale reached for the end of his jumper. “You’re the one who gets distracted here.”

“Semantics, darling,” Aziraphale retorted and whisked Crowley’s jumper up and over his head, tossing it aside. He paused, then chuckled. “I still rather like that t-shirt.”

Crowley glanced down, a stupid, warm fuzzy feeling spreading through him. It was his wedding reception t-shirt. _I got married and all I got was this lousy t-shirt_. “Yeah,” he said happily, stroking the shiny letters. “Me too.”

“I like it much better, though–”

“If you say ‘on the floor’, I want a divorce.”

Another wide-eyed, slow blink greeted him. “I,” Aziraphale said with a wounded air, “would say no such thing.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Mm. Right. Not fooling anyone.” He lifted his arms. “Go on, then. Strip me down and chuck me in the tub.”

Aziraphale sighed sadly. “My dear,” he said mournfully, as he peeled Crowley’s damp t-shirt off. “You have this remarkable capacity for utterly ruining the mood.”

“Says Mr ‘I like it better on the floor’?” He laughed, reaching for his belt and undoing it. “I don’t know what mood you were going for with that, but I think we’re about even for ruining it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Fair,” he agreed, looking down as Crowley abandoned his jeans to unbutton Aziraphale’s sodden shirt. “Though if you intend to keep me from being thoroughly distracted, you are doing a terrible job of it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows innocently. “No idea what you mean,” he said, then pulled the demon’s shirt open and pressed his hand – warmed by only the tiniest of miracles – against the snow-chilled skin. Aziraphale made a low sound, the rumble rippling through his chest. “No idea at _all_.”

“If I wasn’t so damned cold…” Aziraphale groused reproachfully, making mortifyingly fast work of Crowley’s clothes long before Crowley even finished half of his buttons. “Come on, darling! Some time today!”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want me to slow down and make you suffer?”

A pink bloom spread across Aziraphale’s cheeks. “As tempting as that may be, I may request a raincheck for a warmer day.”

Crowley grinned and shoved his damp shirt off. “Good choice.” He leaned closer and pressed a warm kiss to the demon’s cheek. “You, me and the Aegean in the summer?”

The soft, awed expression that crossed Aziraphale was answer enough.

“An island to ourselves?” he suggested as Crowley got rid of his trousers. “A lovely beach? Some of that delicious cheese of theirs? Fresh fish?”

“All of the above?” Crowley said, smiling. “Our anniversary?”

Aziraphale swept him up into his arms. “I,” he said, between fervent kisses, “adore you.”

Crowley slipped his hand between their lips and grinned. “One more thing.”

“Mm?” Aziraphale seemed preoccupied, lavishing kisses on his palm.

“I’ve bought a bikini.”

Aziraphale abruptly went very, very still, his eyes rising from Crowley’s hand to meet his eyes instead. “Bikini,” he echoed against Crowley’s palm.

“Mm-hm.” Crowley widened his eyes innocently. “Cream, gold and brown.”

“Ngghhh!” Aziraphale moaned and kissed his palm again.

“That a yes?”

The demon’s eyes narrowed and, really, in hindsight, Crowley should have realised the error of standing between Aziraphale and the bath tub, because he was hoisted off the floor into Aziraphale’s arms and dropped unceremoniously into the tub.

Water sloshed everywhere and he scrabbled at the sides, spluttering. “Hey!”

“Distracting me!” Aziraphale declared. “Getting us back on topic!”

Crowley cuffed a handful of water at him, as he scooted up the tub. “So you try and drown me?”

“Quite frankly, my darling,” Aziraphale countered with a haughty sniff as he stepped with surprising daintiness into the tub, “I think we need to have a discussion about who was working on getting whom wetter.”

“Pervert,” Crowley laughed, sprawling back against his end of the tub and lifting his legs to give Aziraphale room to fold his in too.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, sliding a hand along Crowley’s wet calf. “It’s as if you know me.” He settled back against the opposite end of the tub, sinking down into the frothing water with a contented sigh as it lapped up around his shoulders. He tugged Crowley’s calf again. “Come here, my delectable sprite.”

Crowley smiled, sloshing his way up the tub until he was nestled in Aziraphale’s lap. “Warmer now?”

Wet arms slithered around his waist. “Almost.” Aziraphale kissed him below his ear. “May we do this more often?”

“The snowball fights?” Crowley said, all innocence.

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “You know what I mean.”

Crowley eased his legs down between Aziraphale’s, settling his back against his husband’s chest. “I do,” he said, smiling as Aziraphale nuzzled happily at his hair. “Any time you like. If Heaven asks about the miracles” – he chuckled when Aziraphale snorted – “I’ll just say it’s a baptistery.”

Aziraphale’s shout of laughter echoed off the arched ceiling and Crowley had to smother his own, his lips twitching. “Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, chest rumbling with mirth against Crowley’s back. “Baptise me, darling. Wash all my naughty, naughty sins away.”

“I don’t think there’s enough water on the planet for that,” he retorted, yelping when Aziraphale sloshed water in his face.

“Uncalled for!” Aziraphale declared, pout audible in his voice.

Crowley wriggled around to look up at him, trying to school his smile. “And yet, true.” He dropped a kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. “Don’t sulk. I’m not finished yet.”

A suspicious look slid across the demon’s face. “Oh?”

Under the water, Crowley snapped his fingers and the water began to bubble around them.

“Oh!” Aziraphale beamed at him. “Have I mentioned how much I adore you?”

Crowley settled comfortably back against his chest. “I could stand hearing it again.”

And in the winter’s sunlight, wreathed in steam, water and bubbles, Aziraphale happily indulged him.


	84. 2020 - December - Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A follow-up to the Hydaspes chapter :)

“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt?” Crowley called up.

Safely ensconced in the bedroom, out of sight of Crowley and the blessed book, Aziraphale stuck his hand between the rails, thumb up. “Marvellous, darling. Ready when you are.”

He lay back on the bed as, below, Crowley started to read the medieval copy of his book. Raziel’s best works, he’d promised, though he’d had to dig into the much later copy because he could freely admit it was a lot to remember in order.

There _was_ a flavour of holiness in the air, a prickle of power Aziraphale remembered from the occasion when he had read the book all those months ago. It was like standing on the threshold of a holy building, close enough for it to tingle, but not close enough for it to burn.

A little discomfort could be tolerated for there was a beauty in Crowley’s voice as he spoke in the first of all languages, translating the words of the book back into the original meaning, a lilting rise and fall like music.

For a moment, Aziraphale could close his eyes and remember what it was to stand in the lip of the celestial plain, watching the world take shape, as the choirs sang around him. He blinked a little harder, his eyes damp with rebellious tears.

“Hm.”

The irate sound from below made him sniff hard and shift to his side. “Cherub?”

“The translation here…” Crowley scuffled about below and a pen scratched on paper. “Oh for Heaven’s sake. It was a _literal_ translation, you idiots. Who decided that was a metaphor? Honestly, if I didn’t know how it really went, I’d’ve ended up off on a tangent.”

Aziraphale chuckled fondly. “Nothing too drastic, I hope?”

Crowley muttered under his breath, grumbling. “Not for us,” he finally said. “Probably for them. Just some specifics about the powers that can be called on. It was speculative at the time, since… well… it was before… you know. When there was only Heaven.”

Before the Fall, then.

“So it mentioned Heavenly and Diabolical powers?”

“Mm. And the stillness between.”

Aziraphale frowned. “The what?”

Crowley huffed, scribbling some more. “It’s like…. I don’t know. It’s a natural energy that flows through the universe. These clowns have translated it as something like the holy spirit. It’s not. It’s just… like an element on its own. Like air. Or water. Or something. It’s just _there_.”

“You’re saying there’s a different kind of power?” The demon frowned more deeply. “Neither celestial or hellish?”

Crowley blew a raspberry. “’Parently I’m the only one who paid attention in meetings. This was in all the briefing packs back in the day.” He huffed, riffling through some more pages. “I don’t think anyone paid any attention because you can only use it on earth.”

Aziraphale rolled onto his belly, peeking cautiously between the rails. “Really?”

Crowley, bowed over the book, nodded. “Why didn’t anyone pay attention?”

“In their defence,” Aziraphale pointed out, “the building of the universe was rather a distraction.”

Crowley snorted. “Not the point.”

Aziraphale propped his chin on his folded arms. “Is it still there? This power?”

“Yep,” Crowley confirmed. “It’s… tricky to use and can do a lot of damage if you’re not careful, but it was useful back in the day. If I was… um… well, it didn’t count as a miracle. Sort of. Used it for the safeguards on this place too.”

“Because no one else would know how to dismantle it?” Aziraphale glowed with pride. “You have a cunning little brain, darling.”

Crowley peered up at him. “Oh, shush. I just use what’s available to me when it’s appropriate.” He set down his notepad. “Right. Where was I?”

“Being a huffy little madame.”

Crowley flicked a finger up in his direction.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Aziraphale chuckled, and settled back down to listen to the angel reading.

Though he couldn’t say why, Crowley’s little revelation about the ‘stillness between’, whatever it was stuck in his mind. When the angel was occupied, he risked a quick glance at his hand-scribbled notes, trying to make sense of it.

How strange to think there was another power at play in the world and he had never noticed it.

Of course, because he was an insatiably curious beast, he waited until a day when Crowley was occupied with his herds of excitable children decorating a Christmas tree. While the angel was thus distracted, he skirted the perimeter of the community centre grounds, feeling along for the boundary of power.

It took several attempts, the defences as smooth as glass under his cautious prodding.

“Aha!”

Like a key in a lock, he felt the shift of power against his own.

It felt… peculiar.

Certainly not celestial, but not diabolical either.

Like a cat plumping a pillow, he kneaded at it, examining the texture of it. And, to his confused surprise, the familiarity of it. Which was impossible. He had never been aware of it, so how would he have experienced it? And no one used it.

He paused, turning on the spot to stare at the chapter house.

No one save a certain angel.

He retreated to their home, retiring up the stairs to the bedroom, and lay on the bed, staring blankly at the monocle-wearing moustached lamb of God on the ceiling. When, he thought. When had he felt that kind of power before? There were far too many memories to fish through, but he closed his eyes and thought.

Some time later, the door below opened.

“Aziraphale? You in here?”

“Mm.”

The angel clattered up the stairs. “Everything all right?” he inquired, flopping on the bed beside Aziraphale.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his husband. “Thinking, my sparrow.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Did it hurt?”

Aziraphale made a face. “Come now, love. I can ruminate from time to time.”

Crowley slung an arm over his middle. “S’true.” He tugged on the button of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and slipped his fingers between then, poking playfully as Aziraphale’s chest and – like a lightning flash – Aziraphale _knew_ where he had felt that power before. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“Your stillness… thing.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “It’s nothing really.”

“It is, though.”

“It is?”

“On a battlefield,” Aziraphale said, staring at him. “I had the oddest of experiences. An arrow pierced me, but when I woke, it there was no trace of it. No mark. Nothing of the kind.”

Honey eyes blinked owlishly at him.

“It felt as if some power, neither heavenly or hellish, had tended me.”

“Er…”

There could be no mistaking the hot blush accelerating up the angel’s face.

Aziraphale rolled onto his side to stare at him. “We were barely even friends, dearheart,” he said, dazed. “You helped me, even then?”

Crowley fidgeted. “What was I meant to do?” he burst out indignantly. “Why did everyone think I could just sit by and do nothing when people who are nice to me get hurt? Oh, don't help the humans, Raziel. Oh, don’t help anyone! Don’t do anything you’re not meant to!” He huffed, shaking his head. “Yes! All right! I fixed you! Discorporation is _rubbish_ and it wasn’t fair, not when you were just doing your job and–”

Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him quiet. “Thank you.”

Crowley blinked at him again. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled, nodding. Of course it was Crowley. Who else could it have been? All those months and years of puzzling over it, wondering if he had some mysterious ally and gradually giving up on ever finding them. “You didn’t stay to let me know.”

Crowley nudged their noses together. “You’re not an idiot. F’you found out an angel had the power to heal a demon, you’d’ve put two and two together eventually. Didn’t need you knowing who I was.”

“Or what you could do?”

“Pfft!” Crowley tugged at the front of his waistcoat. “Bugger what I can do. I thought everyone could it at the time.”

And he didn’t want to be Raziel in Aziraphale’s eyes. And to put Aziraphale in a situation where he had to report back to Hell.

Aziraphale scooped up his hand and kissed his palm. “You could’ve told me. Recently, I mean.”

The blush blossomed again. “I forgot,” Crowley mumbled sheepishly.

“You…” Aziraphale gaped. “You heal an enemy on a battlefield and you _forgot_?”

“I had more pressing things to worry about!” Crowley protested. “Bloody great war on! And then… stuff… it wasn’t great and I forgot!”

Aziraphale dissolved into helpless laughter, hauling his angel into his lap. “You are the most cotton-headed little cherub I have ever seen,” he said, wrapping arms and legs about him. “And I adore you.”

Crowley snuggled into him. “M’glad you didn’t discorporate,” he confided. “You suit this shape. A new body would be…” He made a face. “Keep this one, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled. “As you wish.”


	85. 2021 - April - Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was from an idea from Ashfae :D Hope you're happy now!

Occasionally, mysterious things turned up in Aziraphale’s shop. They had done for the two centuries that he had owned the shop.

Some were obvious gifts – toys and lubrication discreetly left on a shelf were quite common – but his favourites were the little brass plaques. None of them matched in shape, size or font, but they clearly had each been inspired by another.

The first had appeared a decade after the shop’s opening. A perfect rectangle, the length of his hand, it had been engraved with floral decorations and the words: _Pleasure Your Shelf_. He found it after closing one afternoon, discreetly wrapped in paper on the table beneath the dome.

Naturally, he affixed it to the broad wooden side of one of his shelves, facing into the shop.

More followed, not regularly but now and then.

_Enjoy a good hard… back. Explore interesting passages. Come in and finger some spines. Look and Do Touch. Pull for Service. Spread a centrefold. Open to a Penetrative Mind. Cum amplexus. Some have Greatness Thrust Upon Them._

They had rather trailed off after the wars, but then his client base was not quite as artful as they used to be. More handcuffs and flavoured KY, less amusing and witty puns. Still, a lustful gift was a lustful gift and what he didn’t enjoy himself, he redistributed to his more loyal customers.

If he was quite honest, the little plates had been so much a part of the décor that he almost forgot that they had not been his own idea to begin with. Sometimes, he even forgot they were there.

Of course, an angel reminded him when he popped in with lunch one afternoon.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Aziraphale called through from the back of the shop, presuming he had a customer. It came as a great delight to trot out into the sun-drenched dome and fine Crowley there, radiant and glowing in the sunlight. “Oh! Hello, darling!” He swooped on him, lavishing kisses on his cheeks. “You didn’t say you’d be coming.”

Crowley laughed. “Yeah. S’kind of the point of a surprise.” He held up a bag. “Got sushi!”

Aziraphale clasped his hands to his heart in delight. “Oh you spoil me!” He glanced around the shop, then held up a hand. “A moment. I’ll fetch us a blanket and we can have a little picnic in the sun.”

The angel grinned. “We _could_ go outside.”

“I suppose.” Aziraphale considered it. “But then other people would have an opportunity to bask in your radiance and I’d rather hoard you to myself.”

“Ngh!” Crowley glowered at him as his features flushed.

Aziraphale beamed and waved coquettishly as he darted back into the back of the shop, retrieving a rather nice tartan throw from his couch. He hurried back through, shaking it out, and smiled at the sight of Crowley meandering around the shelves.

“You haven’t really seen it in daylight before, have you?” Aziraphale spread the blanket on the floor. “I like to think it looks rather splendid.”

“Can’t believe you put those up.” Crowley grinned as he waved to the array of little brass plaques.

“Oh, but they’re _darling_, aren’t they?” Aziraphale beamed. “So charming!”

“Not the word I’d use,” Crowley said with a sniff, “but I’m glad you liked them.”

On the whole, Aziraphale liked to think he was rather bright, and yet sometimes, Crowley had the knack of launching a spanner straight into the works with inerring precision. “I– wait– you– they were from _you_?”

Wide honey eyes blinked innocently at him. “Um… no?”

“Angel!” Aziraphale abandoned the picnic and the blanket to pounce on the angel. “_You_ sent me filthy little plaques for decades? _You_?!?”

Crowley’s cheeks were shading towards scarlet and he fidgeted. “Er. What’s the right answer in this situation?”

Aziraphale swooped in and kissed him. “I’d _thank_ you!” he exclaimed, between butterfly kisses all over the sputtering angel’s face. “They’re _wonderful_. I _adore_ them! And why the deuce didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Crowley tugged gently on the front of his waistcoat. “I thought it was obvious,” he said.

“Obvious?”

“Well…” The angel scanned around the shelves. “I mean, _that_ one was a dead giveaway.”

Aziraphale peered at it. “_Cum Amplexus_. Why would that one…” He paused, staring at it. “Oh. Ha! I only took the… oh for Satan’s sake… with _coils_, not just with embracing.”

“A snakey meaning,” Crowley confirmed with a crooked smile. “I thought you’d guessed.”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. Especially not when the majority had come to him when they hadn’t spoken for so long. All through the late 1800s and into the early 1900s. “Oh, darling, I hadn’t.”

Crowley flushed beautifully, ducking his head. “Um. Well. Surprise.”

Aziraphale leaned into him, cupping his face and claiming his lips, kissing him gently and thoroughly and pressing him back against the nearest bookshelf. Crowley made a small, pleased sound, his fingers threading into Aziraphale’s hair, curling and tugging.

“You,” Aziraphale breathed into his lips, “spoil me. Even when I don’t realise.”

Crowley nuzzled the tips of their noses together. “S’mutual,” he said happily and kissed him again, quickly. “Picnic?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Picnic,” he agreed, stepping back. As tempting as it was to ravish his beloved angel against the bookshelves, not today. Not until he wanted to. So the demon caught Crowley’s fingers, lifting them to his lips and kissing them fondly. “Will you eat too?”

Crowley nodded, tugging him over to the blanket. “Got some salad and mochi and soup and things too.”

“Were we not already married,” Aziraphale said, clutching his chest once more, “I would beg you to marry me again.”

The angel laughed. “You’re such an idiot.”

“And you, darling, are the idiot who married me.”

Crowley grinned as he sat down, retrieving the takeaway bag. “Let’s just agree we’re both as bad as each other.” He offered a platter of sushi to the demon. “Give or take.”

Aziraphale nodded happily. “Two of a kind.”

“Yeah.”


	86. 2021 - May - Honeymooning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* Another explicit chapter! :D Given the title, you'd kind of expect it, ni?

“You’re early.”

Crowley put his hands on his hips and made a face. “You’re really going to complain?”

Aziraphale blinked innocently in the bright Aegean sunlight, looking far too overdressed for the white sands of the beach. “Well, you know how particular I am about…” His eyes drifted, and his tongue darted along his lower lip. “Ah… yes. Punctuality. I like to… to…” He tilted his head one way, then the other. “You know, darling, _that_ is cheating.”

The angel looked down at his bikini, picked out especially. “Oh, this old thing?”

“Angel,” Aziraphale growled.

Crowley grinned, then reached up and with a flick of his fingers, long red waves spilled around his shoulders. Aziraphale made a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure as the angel sauntered towards him, skin golden and freckled in the brilliant sunlight.

“The weather gets too hot here around out anniversary,” he said, slipping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “And the centre needs to be open in the summer as well. So thought why not do it now, when things are quiet?”

Broad hands slid up his bare back, making him shiver pleasantly. “Mm.” Fingers curled in the ends of his hair, tugged gently. Aziraphale lowered his head, pressing a string of heated kisses the length of Crowley’s throat. “No offence meant, darling, but I really would rather like to ravish you.”

Crowley’s heart gave a pleasant little stutter. “I had a thought,” he began, heat blooming in his face. “I mean, I did some reading.”

“Oh?” The thrum of interest in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s breath hitch.

Blushing furiously, the angel stepped back and took him by the hand. “Trust me?”

“Eternally,” Aziraphale murmured, gazing at him as if he’d set the stars.

Crowley led him up from the beach, because while it was lovely, there were occasions to get sand in places and this wasn’t one of them. A small house stood just beyond the dunes with its own sprawling pathways and a glistening blue pool.

And, on the veranda beside the pool, there stood a broad and sturdy sun lounger.

“Sit,” he instructed.

Aziraphale did at once, looking up at him with such adoration Crowley had to take a minute to catch his breath. He distracted himself by grabbing one of the cushions from the lounger. He plumped it unnecessarily, then set it down at Aziraphale’s feet.

“Darling…”

“Shush,” Crowley said firmly, kneeling down in front of him. His heart was drumming like a percussion section and his hands shook a bit when he braced them on Aziraphale’s knees, pushing his legs a little wider apart.

“You don’t have–”

“You keep saying that,” Crowley said gently, kneeling up and cupping his cheek. “_You_ don’t have to.” He kissed the demon quickly, smiling against his lips. “D’you really think I’d do anything I didn’t want to?”

Aziraphale nuzzled the tip of his nose. “Well you _do_ like making people happy,” he murmured.

“And I _really_ like turning you into a babbling wreck,” Crowley countered with a grin, then kissed him, licking into his mouth and stealing his breath. Aziraphale sank a hand into his hair, moaning happily into his mouth, too distracted to noticed Crowley’s other hand making fast work of his belt until the angel pulled his fly down.

“Angel!” he gasped out against Crowley’s lips.

Crowley kissed the corner of his mouth softly. “Do you want me to stop? I won’t do anything unless you want me to.”

The demon pressed their brows together, taking shivering breaths. “As long as you want, I want,” he growled. “I will take anything you’ll–” He made a small, sharp sound as Crowley – definitely not for the first time – took hold of his already-upright effort. “Oh sweet Lucifer’s tits!”

Crowley burst out laughing. “Do you have to bring him into it?” he demanded, grinning.

Aziraphale gave him a wounded look. “You surprised me!” His eyes fluttered shut as the angel moved his hand. “Oh _Lord_…”

Crowley leaned in and kissed him again softly, then his cheek, then his jaw. “One rule,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s ear. “No finishing until I say so.”

“Vixen,” Aziraphale groaned, his fingers curling against the back of Crowley’s head. “You’re trying to make me discorporate.”

“Just wait,” Crowley replied happily, then sank down on his heels and considered the task at hand. He’d played with Aziraphale’s effort before, plenty of times, but he’d never used his mouth. Seemed straightforward enough, really, and Aziraphale always seemed to enjoy any of his touches, so he lowered his head and licked it.

“Oh _fuck_!” Aziraphale’s fingers clenched in his hair. His other hand darted between them, clutching at the bottom of his erection. “Hold on, angel!”

Crowley raised his eyes. “_Already_?” he echoed. “This is the hand thing all over again, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Darling,” he said, his eyes solid blue, “I have a _very_ active fantasy life and things I never expected to happen. Right now, you are in a _bikini_ and _sucking_ at my _cock_. I am having a little _trouble_.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “I only really licked it.” And because he couldn’t help being a bit of a bastard, he leaned in and gave it a quick suck.

Aziraphale yowled.

“S’lucky we have a private island,” the angel said innocently, propping his arm on Aziraphale’s thigh. He cupped his chin in his hand, the heat of his blush warm against his palm. “We could do… something else.”

“This…” Aziraphale took a steadying breath. “This is lovely.” He curled his fingers deeper in Crowley’s hair, kneading the back of his neck. “Proceed.”

“Not very romantic, is it?” the angel inquired, eyes dancing with mischief. “Proceed! Onward ho!” Still he wriggled happily closer. “Are you going to keep your hand there?”

“For now, I fear I must.”

Crowley beamed, kneeling up to kiss him again. “You’re so good for me.”

He sank back down, then lowered his head and took Aziraphale’s erection in his mouth. Bit weird, if he was honest, salt and heat and wet, but he explored it with his tongue, basking in the urgent little sounds Aziraphale was making.

He drew back a bit. “Biting bad?”

“Biting bad,” Aziraphale confirmed hoarsely.

“Gotcha.” He lowered his head again and sucked instead and that made Aziraphale’s hips jump, pushing further into his mouth. Ah! Right. Okay. Licking and sucking. He opened his mouth a little wider, tried inching down a bit. He could feel Aziraphale’s hips trembling against him and it was a bit mean to make him suffer so early in the trip.

Gently, he wrapped his hand around the demon’s and pulled it away, sucking again.

Aziraphale made a strangled sound as his effort pulsed and Crowley choked as his mouth was filled with liquid. Spluttering, he lifted his head, more of the stuff stringing on his face. He smacked his lips, blinking hard.

“Fuck!” Aziraphale pulled him closer, whipping out his kerchief and gentle wiping at Crowley’s face. “Sorry, love.”

Crowley made a face. “S’like those bloody oysters…”

Aziraphale started laughing, catching his arms and lifting him up. He set Crowley on his plush thigh, then resumed dabbing at his chin, cleaning up the mess. “Darling, this is why I never asked you to do that,” he said, voice soft with affection. “You _hate_ putting things in your mouth. Why did you think this would be any different?”

Crowley huffed. “I like _some_ things,” he protested, draping his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Very few things.” Aziraphale tucked away his kerchief, then cupped the angel’s chin gently. “But I will consider this a rare delicacy I had an opportunity to indulge at least once.”

Crowley leaned into his hand. “Sorry. Thought it would be all right.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, don’t be,” he murmured, then kissed him, licking into his mouth as if to sweep away the taste.

Crowley made a happier sound, leaning into him, laughing into the kiss as the demon rolled him onto his back. “Like you,” he informed Aziraphale. “Like that you don’t mind my weird bits.”

Aziraphale braced himself on his forearms over the angel. “Without your weird bits, you wouldn’t be you, and then where would I be?”

Crowley curled a finger down his cheek. “Single?”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Lord, no, thank you.” He stroked his hand down Crowley’s side and the angel shivered happily at the wash of warmth. “If I may, darling?”

“S’why I’m wearing this,” Crowley replied, as Aziraphale sat up, eyes sweeping over him greedily. “Easy access.”

The demon beamed at him. “I _adore_ you.”

_____________________

The doors of the small villa were wide open, morning sunlight pouring in.

Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had found a beautiful place for their semi-honeymoon. While the angel slept through the dawn, he often sat on the terrace, listening to the waves, and during the day, they frolicked like love-sick idiots in the pool or in the sea.

Sometimes, they simply sat in quiet twilight, the little bungalow lit by candles, remnants of their dinner still scattered on the table. Sometimes, Aziraphale read to him. Sometimes – with very little coordination or skill – they danced together to an old record.

The lack of distractions only made his time with his angel more precious.

He crossed the floor to the bed, sitting down on the edge and running his hand the length of a bare, sun-bronzed thigh. “Do you plan on surfacing any time at all this morning?”

One honey eye opened, far more alert than usual. “Mm.”

“Oh, you little rascal!” Aziraphale laughed. “Have you been waiting for me to come back to you?”

Crowley rolled onto his back, a lazy smile on his face. “Got an idea.”

“Another one?”

The angel grabbed him by the shirtfront and yanked him down over him, crushing their mouths together in a kiss. His tongue darted against Aziraphale’s as his fingers made fast work of the buttons, shoving it back over the demon’s shoulders.

“A _vest_?” Crowley huffed. “For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale laughed. “I have standards, darling!” he retorted, trying to wriggle between the angel’s slender thighs. He yelped in surprise when Crowley caught his belt, lifting him up and off. “I… wasn’t meant to?”

Pink spread on Crowley’s cheeks. “I was thinking,” he said, flushing, “Greek-style.”

“Greek-style?” Aziraphale echoed, nonplussed. “Greek-style what?”

Crowley gave him a flat look.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s cock gave a sudden and very interested twitch. The thought of lying with his lover, draping over him, thrusting against him, their bodies… “Oh, yes _please_.”

The angel glowed. “D’you know how? I mean, technical bits? I know slot A, tab B and stuff, but do we need anything or…?”

“Olive oil.” Aziraphale glanced down in the gap between their bodies. “You may need to put me down to fetch it.”

The angel deposited him at once, propping himself up on his elbows as Aziraphale dashed over to the kitchen trotted rapidly back.

“What do I need to do?” Crowley inquired.

Aziraphale felt quite giddy with anticipation. “Don’t worry, darling. I can deal with everything.” He set the oil down beside the bed and peeled his vest over his head.

Abruptly, Crowley was in front of him, kneeling up among the sheets. “You don’t have to,” he said, undoing Aziraphale’s belt and giving him that breathtaking sunshine smile, and – well – what kind of monster would he be if he didn’t kiss the living daylights out of him.

As he kissed and nuzzled his way from the angel’s lips to his throat, basking in Crowley’s soft, pleased murmurs, the angel pushed Aziraphale’s trousers down over his hips and let them fall. He stepped out, one foot then the other, and kicked them aside, then braced his knee on the edge of the bed.

“Lie back down, darling,” he murmured, tilting Crowley gently back against the sheets.

The angel kicked at the loose covers, sending them cascading off the end of the bed, and met Aziraphale’s eyes, beautifully pink. The demon paused for a moment, drinking him in, and trailed his hand lightly down over Crowley’s ribs and combing through the downy copper fluff on his belly.

“Legs together,” he murmured, “nice and tight.”

Crowley licked his lips and gave a delicious little shiver as Aziraphale’s fingers traced downwards, trailing the crease between his tightly-pressed limbs. “There?” he asked, sounding uncommonly breathless.

“Mm.” Aziraphale opened the jar of oil, dipping two fingers into it. The liquid glistened golden-green, thick drips landing on the angel’s skin, threading down over his thighs.

“Cold!”

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale murmured, then pressed his two fingers between Crowley’s thighs. The angel squeaked, muscles tensing, legs tightening around his hand, and he froze, heart pounding, the ache in his cock growing by the moment. “All right?”

Crowley nodded, rose-red. “Feels nice.”

The demon stared at him hungrily and slowly started thrusting his fingers, pleasure cresting in him as the angel squirmed against his hand. He set down the jar, withdrew his hand, and crawled onto the bed, straddling the angel’s narrow thighs.

“I will warn you,” he murmured, leaning over him, bracing his hands on either side of Crowley’s head, “we’ll both end up a mess.”

Crowley flashed that smile at him. “We’re on _holiday_.” His hands slid over Aziraphale’s shoulders, one combing into his hair. “Now…” He somehow managed to go a shade redder, “fuck me.”

“Angel!” Aziraphale wailed, yanking a hand back to clutch himself. “You _can’t_ just spring that on me.”

Said angel was giggling, his fingers toying with Aziraphale’s hair. “I like seeing you like that.” He pulled him down closer, bringing their mouths together again, gentler and inviting. His lips skimmed the demon’s. “Take your time.”

Swallowing a sharp breath, Aziraphale lowered himself, until the tip of his cock pressed against the taut muscles of Crowley’s thighs. He held the angel’s gaze, heart drumming, as he pressed and felt the warm give of Crowley’s flesh against his, the delicious heat of him, and for a moment, all he could was rest there, shivering.

“S’all right,” Crowley murmured, drawing him down, until they were chest to chest, hearts battering against each other. The angel’s fingertips stroked in circles on his back. “Feel okay?”

“You feel remarkable,” Aziraphale admitted against his ear in a shivering whisper. Very – painfully – slowly, he drew his hips back and thrust against.

“Mm.” Crowley’s fingers hooked into his back. “Tickly.”

Aziraphale chuckled against his throat. “Good tickly?” He thrust again, garnering a pleased little sigh from the angel. “Good tickly,” he decided and lowered his head to that place on Crowley’s throat that made him writhe and squirm. And as he _bit_, he started to thrust in earnest.

Oh, he wouldn’t last long, not with Crowley moaning and tugging at him, nails in his back, fingers in his hair, body warm and taut and pliant against and around him. He sucked hot little rosettes into the angel’s skin, which made Crowley cry out and dig in his fingers, lower down, grasping as Aziraphale’s backside, urging him on. And for every thrust, a sharp sigh and gasp and half-whisper of his name.

His mouth found its way back to Crowley’s as his peak crept on him, both of them clinging to each other as his hips shuddered against the angel’s thighs, painting them and the sheets with streaks of white.

“Fuck…” he gasped out, sagging, as Crowley’s legs spilled open between his, dripping and wet.

“Ngh,” Crowley agreed, glassy-eyed and pink and lovely and, oh, such a mess.

Look. Look at that mess.

Well, he would just have to clean up after himself.

He slithered down the bed, settling himself between the angel’s loose-splayed thighs and started to lick him clean. Licked enough to make the angel thrash and squirm again. Continued up, licking, kissing, nibbling and sucking all the way, peppering him with devil’s kisses, rosettes blooming and lovely all over his sun-kissed skin.

Licked and kissed all the way back to his shivering lips and kissed and licked them too.

Crowley threw his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, yanking him down again, both of them sagged, sticky and sated, in the mussed sheets. “S’nice,” he declared.

“Very,” Aziraphale agreed happily, thrumming all over.

“Better’n Alexander?”

Aziraphale’s train of thought overshot the station. “Beg pardon?”

The angel giggled. “The only place he was conquered,” he said. “Bet he didn’t just try Hephaistion’s thighs.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “Angel! Are you accusing me of _seducing_ Alexander the Great?”

“Didn’t you?”

The demon was mortified to realise he was blushing. “Um… not from this position.” He swatted Crowley’s side when the angel chortled. “You know I give as well as I receive!”

Crowley dissolved into helpless laughter.


	87. 2021 - August - Abundance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do something for GO 30th anniversary :) So I did.

There were lights on in the community centre.

Crowley stared at it suspiciously. Aziraphale had said he wouldn’t get back from the shop for another hour, which was why Crowley had nipped out to get some of the nice cakes Aziraphale liked from the bakery in Covent Garden, a special treat for the evening.

He drove the Bentley up to its usual parking place and swung out, taking the box of cakes with him.

Definitely was Aziraphale in there, which didn’t make any sense at all. He only ever went into the community centre with Crowley or if Crowley was already inside. Mostly, he loitered in the chapter house or the garden, as if the centre itself was sacrosanct.

Crowley considered the cake box, then shrugged and headed for the back door of the church which was – he frowned – locked. He jiggled the handle to be sure and a note puffed into existence, pinned to the door: “Front door please.”

“What are you up to?” he murmured, crunching his way along the gravel path.

The front doors of the community centre swung open at his touch and as soon as he stepped in, he realised that the lights weren’t on at all. The place was lit by dozens of lanterns, hung from the walls and ceiling, casting a delicate, warm glow around the hall.

And, in the middle of it, Aziraphale stood, hands clasped nervously in front of him. He was standing beside a picnic blanket, which was scattered with all of Crowley’s favourite treats from a dozen countries, cushioned mats laid out beside it like the old Roman dining tables.

“What’s this in aid of?” he said, unable to hide his smile.

“You surprised me last year,” Aziraphale said, a little pink around the cheeks. “The only way I could think to successfully surprise you was by doing this a day early.” He gave Crowley a small, hopeful smile. “Happy anniversary’s eve, my duckling.”

Crowley managed to tackle him without dropping the cake box, flinging an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. “You don’t have to surprise me,” he said, his cheeks aching with the breadth of his smile. “It’s not compulsory.”

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek. “But I like seeing that look on your face,” he said, then caught Crowley’s hand and lifted it to his lips to kiss it too. “You have no idea how absurdly happy you make me, angel.”

If a year of married life had left one thing the same, it was the beetroot shade Crowley could feel himself going. “Gnah! Stoppit!”

Aziraphale shook his head, kissing his palm, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s. “Never,” he murmured, the sincerity in his expression knocking the breath from Crowley’s lungs. “You are the sun in my sky, the star that guides me and…” He paused, frowning, then rootled around in his pocket. “Damn it to hell, I had some marvellous metaphors all lined up and you’ve gone and driven them out of my mind…”

Crowley leaned in and kissed him. “I don’t need metaphors,” he said. “I know.”

Aziraphale snaked an arm around his waist. “Yes,” he agreed, “but that entirely defeats the purpose of me making you glow like a Christmas tree by telling you…” He shook out a roll of paper that cascaded and unravelled across the floor, at least three metres long and covered in neat, copperplate writing.

“No!” Crowley yelped, clamping a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. “No, no, no!”

The hand against his back shifted and Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

“Hair like burnished copper shining in the sunrise in Damascus!” An unseen voice trilled.

Crowley twisted in Aziraphale’s arms. “Oh, you filthy cheat!”

“Eyes as sweet as fresh honey dripping from the hives of Lebanon.”

Behind his hand, he could feel Aziraphale’s smile.

“Freckles as numerous as the constellations.”

Crowley sagged in his arms, unable to keep from smiling. “If I don’t let you go, I’m never going to hear the end of it, am I?”

Aziraphale happily shook his head as another voice chirped, “Limbs as sleek as the bamboo gardens of Kyoto.”

“If I let you go, can I negotiate down to 10 percent?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “A nose as perfectly formed as the puffin’s bill.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley smacked him with the side of his forearm. “It’s nothing like a puffin!”

“Toes as neat as the winkles at Scarborough.”

“This is going to get worse, isn’t it?” Crowley groaned. “Okay! Fine!” He pulled his hand away. “You have my permission to compliment me, you absolute bastard.”

Aziraphale positively glowed. “I _love_ you,” he said, nudging his brow against Crowley’s. “And I love every part of you, even the parts you think I shouldn’t.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Especially some of them when… you know… you get–” He widened his eyes. “_Lewd_.”

Crowley rubbed the tip of their noses together. “That’s because you’re soft,” he said fondly.

“And likely to become moreso, given the box in your hand.” Aziraphale drew back to peer down at it, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, you sneaky little muffin! That’s why you wanted to know when I’d be back?” He snatched up the box. “Still warm!”

Relieved that Aziraphale had been successfully diverted, Crowley glanced down at the picnic spread on the floor.

“Why in here?” he asked, toeing off his boots and reclining down onto one of the mats.

Aziraphale glanced at him, then very deliberately at a particular section of the wall, an almost bashful smile creeping across his face. Crowley glanced over and pinked even more, remembering how readily Aziraphale had come apart under his attentions.

“Fond memories,” Aziraphale said, settling himself down on the other mat and adding the box to the picnic. “You have the most wonderful hands, my dove. Gentle yet utterly relentless when the mood takes you.”

Crowley ducked his head bashfully. “Are the compliments really necessary?”

“We could go back to the animal metaphors, if you’d prefer,” Aziraphale said with a wicked grin. “Or you could simply accept I will be lavishing all my affections on you tonight.”

Crowley flopped dramatically on the mat. “Oh, the burden I have to bear!”

Aziraphale gave him a doting smile. “I love your drama,” he confided, nudging a plate of dumplings towards Crowley’s mat. “Hell knows how you kept a lid on it for so long, darling. You have such a flare for the dramatic.”

Crowley laughed, rolling onto his side. “I didn’t think I could,” he admitted. “I only–” He met Aziraphale’s eyes. “You made me feel like it wasn’t… bad to do it. You helped me enjoy it.”

“Mm. And then you turned it on me at my own funerals,” Aziraphale sighed. “You were a terrible mourner.”

Crowley snorted. “You were a terrible corpse.”

Aziraphale’s smile could’ve outshone the lamps. “I was, rather.”

Crowley gazed at him, his husband, his best friend, and the love of his life. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

The smile wavered. “Excuse me?”

“You,” Crowley said. “I just realised I… I don’t think I ever told you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Oh. I…” He frowned. “Oh. Well. Yes.”

“You are, though,” Crowley said, waving a fork at him. “I mean, your hair is like a _cloud_ for Heaven’s sake! And I’ve seen opals that couldn’t come close to matching your eyes.” And his words hitched at the sight of Aziraphale blushing and fidgeting. “And you’ve never been told that before, have you?”

“Er…” Aziraphale said, twisting his wedding band.

Oh _Lord_, Crowley thought, staring at him in wonder. No wonder they fit so well together, two people who had been stripped of care and affection and now, here they were, lying together in the place where they had bound themselves to one another for eternity.

Crowley propped himself on one arm and leaned over to grasp Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “How about,” he said, “we take it in turns? See which of us can make the other blush the most before bedtime?”

The demon looked over at him. “You don’t have to,” he said in a shockingly small voice. “I don’t– it’s not necessary.”

Crowley squeezed his hands. “I love you. I want to tell you.”

Aziraphale’s smile returned, but much smaller and shyer. “I would like that,” he said softly. “Thank you, cherub.”

“Anything my deliciously ripe and luscious husband desires.”

To his utter delight, Aziraphale made a sound like a flustered Victorian widow, clutching his hands to his cheeks. “Oh!”

Crowley beamed at him. “I’m just getting started.”

“Is this how you feel every time?” Aziraphale inquired, flapping a hand at his face, as if to cool the blush.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley said, grinning from ear to ear. “Bring it on.”

_________________________________

Aziraphale had loved Crowley for an absurdly long time. He couldn’t really pinpoint when it had begun, although the Garden had put down some damned sturdy roots. By the time they crossed paths in Rome… well, he was doomed, to put it mildly.

And yet, every time he had reached the limit of his affection for the angel, Crowley somehow lifted the bar a little higher and a little higher.

The previous evening, over a banquet of international nibbles, he had done it again, pouring out all of his affection in words, taking the dented and bruised little tin lump that was Aziraphale’s heart and polishing it up, as if it was made of gold.

Aziraphale had a very good memory. Photographic some might say. And every one of those gentle little compliments, all those little words of love and affection, he carefully hoarded away. Shoring them, he thought with soft wonder, against my ruin.

He looked down at the angel snuggled against his chest, snoring quietly, and stroked his fingers gently through Crowley’s hair.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, buttercup,” he said softly, “but I’m glad I have you.”

“S’new.”

He lifted his hand away. “Oh! Sorry! I didn’t meant to wake you.”

“Mm.” Crowley yawned. “Y’found a new one.”

“New one?”

“Mm. Buttercup. S’new.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll have to dig out one of your gardening books. Replenish my vocabulary.” He ran his fingertips up and down Crowley’s neck. “Would you like your anniversary present now?”

Crowley lifted his head, squinting sleepily. “I thought last night–”

“Anniversary’s eve supper,” Aziraphale demurred. He tapped Crowley’s shoulder. “Under your side of the bed.”

Sometimes, Crowley was slow to wake, but this morning, he rolled over and scrambled to the side of the bed, leaning over the edge. He gave an excited yelp and tugged out the parcel, hauling it up into his lap.

“You didn’t have to!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course I did, darling. It’s our anniversary, after all, and as I was reliably informed last night, I am a dreadfully hopeless romantic.”

Crowley blushed happily and tore into the wrapping paper, shredding it into the air like confetti. When it fell open around the contents, his eyes widened. “You got me clothes!”

“No,” Aziraphale corrected with a sheepish smile.

“No?” Crowley peered at the bundles of knitted fabric. “Looks like clothes.”

“They are clothes, but I didn’t get you them.” Aziraphale twisted his hands together for want of something better to do. “I… ah… made them.”

“Made…?” Crowley stroked the fabric. “But they don’t feel like miracles.”

“No.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I _made_ them.” He held up a hand. “Now, they might not be very good. I’ve never knitted before but–”

He suddenly had an angel on top of him, staring at him wide-eyed. “You learned to knit? So you could make me clothes?”

Aziraphale nodded shyly. “I wanted to do something special.”

Crowley swooped down and kissed him over and over. “We,” he warned between kisses, “are doing that compliment thing again. Soon. I have new ones. Lots of new ones.”

Aziraphale gave him a happy squeeze. “Perhaps look at them before you decide.”

Crowley scrambled up at once, shaking out the piles of colourful fabric. He crowed in delight, pulling on the socks with a pattern that looked almost the same as Aziraphale’s snake form and waggled his toes.

Then he unfolded the outsized jumper in all shades of the rainbow. It wasn’t a master work, but it was warm and bright and colourful and the angel’s face lit up as he turned it around and wriggled his way into it. He spread his arms, looking at Aziraphale, shining with happiness. “How do I look?”

Aziraphale reached out to untuck a piece of scrap paper from the collar. “Incandescent.”

Crowley bounced happily on his knees. “Like a lightbulb!” He threw himself into Aziraphale’s arms, kissing him again. “Thank you! I love them!”

“I’ll make you more,” Aziraphale promised, fizzing with pleasure. “As many as you like.”

“Be careful what you wish for!” Crowley laughed, pushing himself back onto his knees. “Now, my turn!”

Ah, there went that bar, rising again. “You needn’t.”

“Too late!” He leapt off the bed, all pale, skinny legs and knitted socks, and ran down the stairs. Two minutes later, he thundered back up and launched himself onto the bed, bouncing back across to Aziraphale, a flat, square box in his hands. “Tada!”

It was roughly wrapped with a giant ribbon twisted in a bow, which came undone with a single tug. The paper spilled open, revealing a box and Crowley was practically vibrating as Aziraphale cautiously lifted the lid, revealing a beautiful – and from the looks of it – brand new, but leather-bound and embossed book.

He lifted the spine up, his heart skipping at the sight of a single word in ancient angelic lettering. ‘Love’.

“What is it?” he asked, reverently lifting it out of the box.

Crowley ducked his head, pink-faced and wriggling. “The Book of Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s brain stopped.

Some part must’ve chugged on in autopilot. Lifted the book. Laid it in his lap. Opened it. Saw words. Hand-written. Careful and beautiful and only occasionally veering into Crowley’s usual chicken-scratch.

The hand of a scribe.

The scribe.

Illuminated too. Hundreds of shared memories. A language no human could know. Etchings printed and decorated with gold leaf. Them. Their lives. Their history. Their _story_. All blurring and shaking. Angel with his arms around him. Book slid off his legs. Onto the bed. He curled, buried his face in Crowley’s chest, shaking.

A long, long time later, Crowley stroked his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair – soft as cloud, he remembered – and gently brushed the tears from his cheeks. “All right?”

Aziraphale managed to sit up, nodding, though he felt wrung out like a cloth. He drew the book back into his lap. The Book of Crowley. His hand trembled on the cover and he opened it, eyes clearer now, able to take in the details, the nuances, the accurate replica of that particular Chinese robe with tiny, dainty golden…

“Crowley,” he whispered, “This… it’s beautiful.”

“Wouldn’t exist without you,” Crowley murmured, snuggling up beside him.

Aziraphale rested his cheek on Crowley’s hair. “I know.”

Crowley covered one of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “I was trying to think what to get you,” he murmured. “First anniversary, I mean. It’s paper. It was this or a packet of Andrex.”

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale burst out laughing. “I think you made the right choice.”

“Mm.” Crowley rubbed his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Happy anniversary, love.”

Aziraphale leaned happily into him. “Happy anniversary.”


	88. 2021 - October - The Big One

“One step forward.”

Warily, Crowley took a step. The solid floor of the Chapter House was replaced with the crunch of snow under foot. He yelped as he sank into the snow. A warm arm coiled around his waist, steadying him.

“I've got you,” Aziraphale murmured close to his ear. 

“This would be much easier if I could see,” Crowley said with a huff.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “but that would ruin the surprise.”

Crowley paused. “The snow isn't the surprise?”

Aziraphale just laughed. “Lean on me,” he said, “and I'll get you to it.”

It wasn't far, but Crowley was already regretting just wearing a t-shirt. “I'm bloody freezing,” he informed Aziraphale, shifting the bundle in his arms. “If any of my bits fall off because of the cold, I’m blaming you. 

Aziraphale kissed his ear fondly. “If any of your bits fall off, I will find them and glue them back on.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “With _what_?”

“You have those lovely art supplies,” Aziraphale replied. “I'll get some of that nice PVA and fix you up a treat.” A door creaked and Aziraphale pressed his hand to Crowley’s back. “One step up now, darling. Up we go.”

The air was warm and the wooden floor shifting gently under foot.

“Can I take the blindfold off now?” Crowley asked

“One moment.” 

The door clattered shut behind him, and he heard Aziraphale hurrying around the room. One finger snap added the scent of candles and warm wax. Another set a soft melody playing on something that sounded a lot what like Aziraphale’s gramophone.

“There we go,” Aziraphale said happily, returning to Crowley’s side. He tugged at the blindfold and it dropped away from Crowley eyes.

Crowley blinked as the world came into focus. They were in a domed room made entirely of glass, lit by candles and framed in every direction by rolling snowbanks and the shadowy spires of a Scandinavian Forest.

“Oh…” he breathed, walking forward. The sky above was already darkening and apparently they were far enough from civilisation that he could already see the stars, pinpricks against the deepening golden-clouded blue. “This is beautiful.”

“I hoped you would like it.” Aziraphale stepped alongside him, brushing his palm across the base of Crowley’s back.

The angel nodded, looking at him. “What’s the occasion?”

Aziraphale smiled. “An anniversary, of a sort.”

Panic flared. “A-anniversary? Shit! Did I forget something important?”

Aziraphale chuckled, his arm snaking around Crowley’s waist. “Not at all.” He plucked the bundle from Crowley’s arms – a change of clothes he was now realising was completely useless for snow – and tugged him forward to the broad bed spread under the dome. “Sit down, my pain-au-chocolat.”

Crowley made a face at him. “Since when have I ever been filled with chocolate?”

The demon gave him a leer. “I would be willing to try if you would.”

Crowley snorted fondly, swatting him, but flopped to lie on the bed, starfishing across the covers and staring up at the star-speckled sky. “So what’s it about?” he inquired, unable to keep from smiling as Aziraphale vanished out of sight and loosened and removed his shoes for him. “October, isn’t it? Halloween disco stuff is already ordered.”

“This,” Aziraphale said, rising from the floor and climbing onto the bed to sprawl beside him, “is why you have your calendar.” He stroked his hand across Crowley’s belly, then traced the outline of the puffin on his t-shirt, following the letters – I love my Puffin Top. “You can’t be expected to remember the days of the week, can you?”

Crowley swatted his hand. “I’ll have you know I’m very busy and important.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale leaned down to nuzzle at his jaw. “What’s on tonight at the centre?”

“Life-painting at six and then rehearsals for–”

“And what day is it?”

Crowley blinked. “Er…” He frowned, riffling through his memories. “Thursday! Ha!”

“And the date?”

“This,” Crowley said with a sniff, “_is_ why I have my calendar.” He paused, tilting his head a bit to let Aziraphale nibble at his earlobe. “What date is it?”

Aziraphale kissed his earlobe, then the corner of his jaw, then his cheek and then his lips. “It’s the 21st of October,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against Crowley’s.

Crowley’s heart flipped. “Oh…”

“Mm.” Blue serpent eyes met his. “Our little home is six thousand and twenty-five years old and I imagine our lives would have been far less interesting without it.”

“Just a bit,” Crowley agreed around the lump in his throat. “I’m glad I got to share most of it with you, in some way or another.”

His husband smiled down at him. “A worthy occasion?”

Crowley nodded, reaching up to brush a stray curl back from Aziraphale’s brow. “You’re just trying to one-up the book, aren’t you?”

“Angel!” Aziraphale sat up with a huff of indignation.

Crowley burst out laughing, sitting up too. “I tease!” He caught Aziraphale’s hands, squeezing them warmly. “I’ve got all my favourite things right here.”

“Almost,” Aziraphale retorted, groping down by the side of the bed. “This is to mark the occasion.”

The parcel drooped sadly, speaking of some soft, possibly material contents and Crowley gave an excited yelp, snatching it. The paper erupted in all directions and he crowed in delight, hoisting up a new – and clearly lovingly-knitted – deep blue woolly jumper.

And on the front, a bright blue and green felted earth with a smiley face and a party hat, surrounded by stars.

Crowley made a sound unidentifiable by any dictionary and yanked it on at once, smoothing it down over his t-shirt. He beamed at Aziraphale, spreading his arms for judgement.

“Just as ridiculous as I expected,” Aziraphale said, face lighting up in a smile. He offered his arms and Crowley launched himself into them, pinning the demon flat on the bed. “Good presents?”

“Best presents.” Crowley dipped down and kissed him on the tip of his nose. “Best husband.”

Aziraphale chuckled, smoothing one hand up and down Crowley’s back. “Don’t tell everyone,” he teased. “They’ll all want one.”

“Nah.” Crowley sprawled happily down on top of him. “One of a kind and all mine.”

Aziraphale’s arm tightened around him. “Yes,” he agreed in a whisper, “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Show Anniversary :D


	89. 2021 - November - Awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my rendition of Awake the Snake :)

Something was wrong.

No. Not wrong. But not quite normal.

Crowley’s brain, which was carefully picking its way back to consciousness, tried to figure out what it was. No coffee smell. Mornings always started with coffee smell. Or pastry smell. Or something nice anyway.

But also, warmer, which was nice on a chilly winter morning. Warmer and wrapped up in…

Huh.

Aziraphale still in bed, lying down behind him. Not reading. Arms around him. Not unheard of, but definitely not usual. Not moving either. No wandering ticklish fingers on his belly. No nibbling his neck.

He squinted in the morning light as he opened his eyes. Something else. Something different. He could feel it. Hear it too. A low, steady rumble-silence-rumble. Seemed to match the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest against his back. Accompanied by ripples of air against his shoulder.

Even without coffee, his brain could do some basic arithmetic.

Aziraphale was _snoring_.

Snoring and still and asleep?

Cautiously, Crowley craned his neck, trying to peek back at him, but he could only see the curve of his eyebrow and the fluff of white hair.

“’Ziraphale?” he whispered. “You awake?”

Rumble-noise continued, in and out.

Millimetre by millimetre, the angel gently rotated under Aziraphale’s warm arm, biting his lip when Aziraphale’s face slid against his neck. The demon grumbled, shifting – and Crowley squirmed onto his back in the same movement – then settled back into the in-out rumbles again. This time, his cheek came to rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley stared down at him raptly. He _was_. Aziraphale was properly asleep. Fully out for the count. The lines of his face had softened, his lashes dark smudges against his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted.

He didn’t sleep. He’d been very proud of the fact that he’d never needed to. Fake-dozing didn’t count. A bit of shut-eye wasn’t really restful when it literally meant shutting his eyes and lying impatiently, waiting for daylight.

The angel ignored the traitorous whine of his body demanding its morning dose of caffeine. It could wait. Some things were more important and right now the warm puffs of Aziraphale’s exhales on his skin and the ticklish scratch of curls on his bare shoulder were too much of a treat to slide away from.

A surreptitious miracle opened the gates and the doors of the centre for the clubs that were due to come in. Another one added a note on the door telling them to fetch what they needed from the steeple and that he’d be along later.

Maybe. Depending on how long Aziraphale slept.

The sun had inched its way across six windows before the demon’s steady rumble changed. Crowley peered down at him as sleepy blue eyes – not a bit of white visible – cracked open, blinking slowly. A puzzled crease curved down between Aziraphale’s eyebrows.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Crowley murmured, bringing up his hand to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply then smacked his lips. “What happened?” he inquired, sounding groggy.

“You fell asleep.”

The demon lifted his head to frown at the angel. “I did no such thing.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Did.” He tugged Aziraphale’s earlobe. “Pinned me down. All helpless and coffeeless.”

Aziraphale almost seemed to go cross-eyed in his confusion. “But I _don’t_ sleep!” he protested, then clapped a hand to his mouth as a yawn tried to escape. Over his fingers, his eyes widened in dismay, which only made Crowley grin the wider. “Oh moh.”

“Oh yes,” Crowley retorted, cheeks aching. “_You_ fell asleep. On me, no less!”

Aziraphale sat up, pink-cheeked. “How embarrassing!”

The angel squirmed out from under the covers and slid around behind him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and propping his chin on the demon’s shoulder. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Oh?”

Crowley kissed him warmly on the neck. “You felt safe and warm and comfortable enough to relax. And you were relaxed enough that you didn’t need to even think about staying awake. No threats, no dangers, no worries. Just safe and snug and loved.”

Aziraphale slumped back into his embrace. “Well,” he declared with a heavy sigh, “that’s just even _more_ embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“100 per cent,” Crowley agreed, kissing his ear. “You soppy lump.” He wrapped arms and legs more snugly around his husband. “You _like_ me.”

“Ugh.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Delusions of grandeur.”

“Nope!” Crowley rocked him with a sing-song in his voice. “You like me and you like our house and you like our bed and you _snuggled _me.”

“I suppose I did.” Aziraphale stroked his fingertips across the back of Crowley’s hand. “And you slept too?”

“Like a baby.”

“What? Crying and wetting the bed?”

The angel flicked him in the belly. “Oh shush. I’m not in a good mood yet. _Someone_ slept through the coffee run.”

“First up is the one to get breakfast, sweetie pie,” Aziraphale replied, running a palm along Crowley’s forearm. “If we’re lacking today, that’s your doing, not mine.”

Crowley nipped at the seam of Aziraphale’s tartan pyjamas with his teeth. “That’s hardly fair.”

“What is it they say?” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “Thems the breaks?”

The angel snorted against his shoulder. “How about we go out? There’s that café down on the waterfront. We’re still in time for brunch.”

Aziraphale gave his arms a happy squeeze. “That sounds like an amicable resolution. May I have extra bacon?”

“If I get your eggs,” Crowley agreed at once.

And snake-fast, Aziraphale twisted in his arms and kissed him warmly on the lips. “Perhaps this sleeping isn’t so terrible after all,” he purred, eyes dancing.

Crowley slipped his hand up between their faces, pushing Aziraphale’s face away. “And I’m two hours late for my caffeine fix, so _that_’ll have to wait.”

Aziraphale only laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my ramblings, feel free to pop by my [tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/). I ramble to excess there :)


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